


Side A

by Vodka112



Series: Earth-S (Stranded) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DC Animated Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon typical violence against a minor, Child abuse of minor character, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pseudo Incest, Underage Smoking, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, teenagers kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8174276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vodka112/pseuds/Vodka112
Summary: Jason gets thrown back to the past and he must find a way back home or else.Alternate AU where Jason didn't die at fifteen. He travels to the past instead.





	

_But why am I the only one standing, stranded, on the same ground?_ \- Kitchie Nadal

**APRIL ‘11**

You can’t see out of your left eye. The flesh around it is puffed up and aching. So is your left cheekbone, now that you think about it. You take a breath and hear the wet gasp coming out of your mouth. There’s blood in your lungs and most of your innards are like pound meat. You think you’re dying.

He’s taking a second break from beating you with your own baseball bat. You see it leaning against the wall, next to the door. It’s tainted with your blood.

Your bedroom looks like the set from a slasher movie. _I Know What You Did Last Summer_. _Jason vs. Freddy_ sounds more like it. Your carpet’s definitely toast. Alfred won’t like that.

Your arms and legs are tied and your right ankle is more than sore. You curl your body, swallowing the pained whimpers bubbling from your throat at the action. You slip your wrists from your back, around your legs then to your front. You push off from the ground and try to stand up by sheer force of will. You take a step forward but your ankle slips under you. You land hard on your bad shoulder and you have to stifle a cry. You sweep your eye to the door.

No one’s coming.

You clench your jaw and crawl, using your arms to drag your body. It’s slow, but it’s the best you can do. The wooden floor is slippery. You are dying.

But not if you can help it.

You got into the mother of all fights with Bruce last week, complete with him benching you from active duty. Then he locked you out of the Batcave when he left for Sarajevo. You’re forced to live a normal civilian life for the three days he’s gone.

 _Or so you want him to think_. You’re your own man and, costume or no costume, so you go out there and patrol your old home. Bruce thinks he can put you in time-out like a little kid. You want to show him you have what it takes to protect Gotham. You show him every night he’s gone, every sad fuck you put in Blackgate, and every eager face you save— You show them you have what it takes to keep this city from drowning in its own shit.

You blame yourself that first hour _Freddy_ starts beating you. If you stayed in, this wouldn’t have happened. You disobey the Boss over and over, and this is how Gotham thanks her knights. You think, _I could’ve stopped this_.

None of that matters now. You work steadily, silently prying a loose piece of wood on the floor. Your nails are blunt and slippery, but you pull the wood free. You carefully put it down and grab the artifact inside the hole.

It’s a round watch with kevlar bands, the same material Bruce uses for his belts. It doesn’t look like much, but B-man made it that way. It’s packed with technology from at least two time machines from the 30th Century. Bruce lets you nick it from his R&D drawer downstairs. All you do is stare at it, thinking about the different ‘ _you_ ’s out there through time and universes. How different your life would be if you never met Bruce, never boosted the Bat’s tires. You want...

Every time you look at it, you want to go back in time and save your mom. Then you smack your head against the wall because you know you can’t. If it was Bruce’s parents (the revered, beloved, _dear_ Thomas and Martha Wayne), it would be possible. But how far will you go back to save your mom? Your dad? Do you go back to when she started doing sex work to feed you? Or before that, to when your dad wasn’t so deep into the bowels of Gotham’s underground that he could spend more time with you, instead of hiding and hoping his enemies won’t get to you or your mom? Maybe you could go back to when you weren’t even born and your dad and mom were on a Greyhound to Gotham, not yet a city, filled with so many hopes and dreams that they can soar the skies. You hurt yourself thinking, and you put the watch back in the hole.

Now, you pull the knob as far as it can go and turn it. You only need half a day so that’s twelve. _No_. You twist the small knob and make it _seventeen_ hours back to the past. Call back Bruce or Alfred. You keep thanking God Bruce took Alfred with him, even when you don’t really believe in greater mysteries.

You hear the door opening behind you with that slow, creaking sound you learn to hate in the past eight hours.

“Jason, my boy, what have you done?” he says, and you turn your head slowly to see _him_ , this _abomination_ with Bruce’s face— this _imposter_ who sneaks in your home while you’re out there, putting his buddies in jail. He fools you the minute you meet, and that’s all the time he needs to whack your head so hard you vomit on the Foyer carpet before passing out.

You keep the watch in your hands, curling your body around it. He doesn’t seem to take notice. He holds the metal bat in a comfortable, left-handed grip.

“You weren’t planning on escaping, were you? I hope you don’t mind if I put a stop to that. I’ve only recently acclimated myself with this bat, and I wasn’t satisfied with my swings,” he says, and taking it down. There’s sharp pain all over your back and you let out a quiet cry.

“As a great philosopher once said, _pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work_ ,” he says, and this time, he swings the bat high with both hands. He smiles, shark-like.

“And I always show perfect results,” he says. You don’t wait for him to swing the bat down. You press the knob on the watch.

A loud sound rings through the room, like being trapped in one of the bells in St. Martin’s Cathedral. Your vision swims and you watch in wonder as the scenery changes around you. The enemy lowers his hands and swings at you, but he doesn’t swing at _you_. He swings at a ghost of you. That Jason takes a hit on his back. Bruce’s evil twin walks backwards out of the room. You see yourself crawl backwards to the center of the room. There’s a cold sensation in your veins at seeing your double with that big bruise on your eye.

Faster and faster, the images go by. He comes in and beats you with the bat. There are less bloody spots on your clothes when he leaves. You pull back from the scene playing in front of you. Blurs now, zooming in and out, the light outside your window a flickering light show and you close your eyes against it. When the world stops spinning, you dry heave on the floor. You wheeze.

It’s still night, moonlight spilling from the open window. You don’t understand why. It should be morning by now. The floor is cold and growing colder by the minute. You hiss as you crawl on cold cement towards the door. You jiggle the knob. It makes a rattling sound but doesn’t open for your slippery palms. You wobble and lean bodily against the door.

This is it. The end of the line. This is how you die. Your vision is blurry and you feel like you’re inhaling ashes. You try to keep awake… and you lose.

 

**???**

Pain blooms on your chest and your left cheek. You let out a strangled cry. There’s no use crying for help. You’re alone in the manor. You’d rather not give him the satisfaction of making you scream—

“Alfred! He’s awake!”

“My word!”

Someone holds your face in their hands, warm and lined with callouses.

“Alfie,” you say under your breath. His thumb digs into your left cheek and you whimper. Alfred makes a soothing sound at you.

“Shh, child. You’re safe now. Just checking to see if we should do something about your eye. Won’t be long now,” he says, and you open your eyes. There’s bright light from above you, and you moan. You feel nauseous.

Alfred clicks his tongue and carries you in his arms. You whine as every move jostles you and makes your ribs rub wrong. You try to look around you, but your eyes are heavy. You fall asleep again.

 

You spend every waking moment going back to sleep. Your mind supplies that you’re in a hospital or a clinic. Hearing Alfred’s voice, even through a curtain, calms your fears. You haven’t fucked up after all. You didn’t blow yourself up with the prototype watch. You’re still alive.

Leslie’s angry grumbles are followed by Alfred’s terse replies. _Wow_. Aren’t you glad you’re in bed and not in the middle of _that_? On second thought, there’s a huge chance _you’re_ the topic of their argument. Leslie’s calling you ‘the boy’. It feels a bit cold, but okay. You know when you’ve fucked up. You don’t hear Bruce and you ignore the sharp pang of disappointment in your chest.

Tentatively, you open your eyes—well, your right eye at least—and look around you. There are curtains drawn on two sides of your cot, and there’s a wall behind you and to your side. You wonder if Leslie’s swamped with patients right now, if all she can give you is the oldest bed in the clinic. It’s a bit cramped, and the tech looks way retro. And _shiny_. The diaphragm that breathes for you is an older model, but it looks fresh from the factory.

The sheets are forest green, and so are the curtains. You are connected to at least three bags of fluids, and one of them’s blood for sure. There’s a cup of water next to you on a low table. It’s sweating cold, and your mouth is dry. You can’t help yourself. You grasp the metal cup, and you end up making it fall to the ground.

The curtain slides open by the foot of your bed. Alfred is by your side immediately, looking you over. Leslie is on your other side, grabbing your attention. She looks really great, in your opinion. Like she looks younger or something. She flashes a pen light in your eyes and puts a stethoscope to your chest. She makes you count her fingers.

“Well, ar’n’chou a lucky kid?” she says as she bites her pen cap and scribbles in her notepad. She finishes her writing and caps her pen.

“I’ve done all I can for your ribs and shoulders. Your right ankle will be in a cast for a couple of weeks. We all thought you tore a ligament there,” she says. You blink up at her. You’ve never heard her talk about taking in an assistant.

“We’ve done corrective surgery for your left eye and cheekbone. You won’t be seeing proper out of there for a couple of weeks, and there may be some dizziness and vomiting. I recommend leaving your eye patch on for as long as you can, up to a month. Then you go back here, and I’ll sign you up for physical therapy,” she says. She looks at you through her glasses.

“Where are your parents or guardian?” she asks in a low tone. You look at her in confusion.

“Wha’chou talkin’ ‘bout? He’s right here,” you say and you look dazedly at Alfred, who looks like he emptied a bottle of hair color on his head. He lifts a brow at you.

“I have never met you before in my life, boy,” he says. You blink.

“Wha’? D’you get whammied in Sarajevo? Whadda fuck?” you say.

“It’s ok, kid. Do you have an SSN at least? We can put you on one of the medical programs,” Leslie says as she pops her pen cap off and into her mouth.

“I have a guardian! It’s Bruce Wayne,” you say. Leslie looks at you incredulously. She lowers the cap from her mouth and makes a face at Alfred. It’s what she does with you when she thinks her patient belongs in Arkham.

“I’m not crazy!” you yell back. Leslie frowns at you.

“Calm down. You don’t need to drop names to get treated around here,” she says. You try to pick up your jaw from the floor.

“Alfred, back me up,” you say, looking beseechingly at him. He narrows his eyes at you.

“I have no idea how to do that, young man, considering Master Bruce is in Singapore and is currently _fifteen years old_ ,” Alfred said.

 

**MAY ‘94**

It’s like pulling teeth, trying to make Leslie and Alfred believe you. It’s a radical concept, you know, but it’s the only one you’ve got. You’re the time-travelling adopted son of Bruce Wayne, not that you did a lot of time-traveling yourself. This is your first time.

It’s only when you drop the name _Batman_ does Alfred start to pay attention. He talks to Leslie out of your hearing range, probably hamming up some lie about your mental health. She lays off on talking about medical expenses with you. It’s not all that wonderful when you get Alfred as a minder 24/7. He doesn’t wholly believe you yet, but he’s willing to put up with you anyway.

You end up confessing the events leading up to your accidental time travel. You try to keep details minimal, in case you end up putting the timeline out of whack. It takes three days to get him up to snuff since you keep passing out on him. Sleep is all you can do that first week.

One morning during your long stay at the hospital, Alfred hands you a terribly fried wrist watch.

“I found this lying next to you,” he says.

“It’s my watch! I mean, it's not all _mine_ , but it’s how I got here!” you gasp, reaching for it. You turn the watch over on your palm. One strap is stuck on its melted back. Its face is reading… _No way_.

It’s reading 4:29:47 April 27, 1994.

“I don’t understand,” you say. “I meant to go back to _yesterday_ , not here.”

“Perhaps you pulled the crown too far,” Alfred sighs. He leans back in his chair. “I’m afraid this avenue of transport is unavailable to you now, lad.”

You bite your lip. This was your best ticket home. You’re positive you can find some other way out of this mess but it can take months, maybe even years.

“I don’t care,” you scowl. “I’m gonna find my way back, Alfie.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” Alfred asks. You grip the watch in your fist.

“Whatever it takes. I don’t know how much I’m messing up the time stream. I told you about—,” you say desperately, making some gesture with your hands that say _Batman_. “I can’t stay here.”

“And I won’t, in good conscience, let you go. You’re still healing from whatever that mad man did to you,” he reasons. You bite your lip. You don’t want to leave either. It’s going to be harder trying to figure out what to do when you’re injured, fifteen and homeless.

“How about you stay for the duration of your... let’s call it displacement, shall we?” he asks. He tugs his pants around the knees and bends closer. “Let your body heal. Then we’ll look through our options.”

“Okay,” you agree.

Alfred nods. “Good lad. Now we need to lay down some ground rules…”

They boil down to two different things. Firstly, you can’t get caught on any recording device. It would be hard to explain how a picture of you wound up in 1994. Better avoid a future media scandal if you can help it. This means you can’t go to school. You can’t do things that require a state issued ID or your SSN. Anything that can lead a paper trail to you must be avoided.

Secondly, you can’t tell anybody else about the future. You can’t tell the household and you absolutely cannot tell the Bruce of this time. Whatever you tell him may affect your present in a very real way. It might help, but it might also make matters worse.

You agree with Alfred. You’re not planning on staying in the past forever. You need to get back to your present and stop Bruce’s evil twin from destroying Batman and Bruce’s legacies.

 

By the second week, Alfred brings you newspapers to read. You feel the beginnings of boredom settle in your bones. At least Alfred seems impatient to get you back to the manor. Leslie makes you stay in Gotham Medical for two more weeks before letting you lose.

Alfred takes you back home to the manor and leaves you to the capable hands of the staff. There’s Cecilia Kettleburn, the cook. She’s a plump old lady with wiry, greying hair that she keeps under a ‘kerchief all the time. There’s also Ricky, the gardener. He doesn’t live in the estate anymore, and he does the landscaping for the rest of the houses on Millionaires’ Mile.

It’s weird calling your temporary home an _estate_. It’s always just been the manor to you. When you first moved in, Bruce closed most of the rooms on the main floor and the Guest Hall. You still stuck close to Alfred that first month so you wouldn’t get lost. Half the manor is filled with ghosts and it’s not even the half that used to be the late Thomas and Martha’s Suite.

Alfred introduces you as James Wolfe, his sister’s departed sister-in-law’s son. The official story is this: your dad had been laid off work quite recently. Unable to take care of you, he asks Alfred’s sister, Sophie, to take you in. Since Sophie is currently somewhere in South Africa doing missionary work, she delegates her nephew to Alfred, whose current employment can provide a better living environment for the boy. As for your bruises, Alfred just sighs and calls you a troubled child.

Alfred moves you into the servants’ quarters in the room on the end of the hallway. There’s a shared bath near the stairs. He tries to give you a tour of the place, and you decline the offer. You draw him an improvised map of the manor instead

It’s easier to prove your claim when you name all the rooms in the manor, even the ones Bruce closed off in your present, which is this time’s future...

It’s the most confusing month you’ve ever spent in the manor.

You proudly show Alfred all the secret entrances and exits you know about and watch his brows climb up to his receding hair. The downside of being a walking, talking _blueprint_ of the manor is how Alfred uses you as his errand boy. Lots of _help me carry this to so and so_ or _get me this from that suite_. You think about complaining, but then you remember how you need to come back for therapy with Leslie at Gotham Medical. You didn’t even pay a cent. Your burdens seem lighter after that realization.

It’s during one of those _get me this_ errands that you meet Clarice. She comes out of the Red Suite (your room in the future) and trips on a piece of wood. There’s a loud snap before she falls and you quickly grab her arm. There’s construction going on in your old bedroom. The roof caved in that winter, and they have to replace the musty wood before Bruce comes home. There’s tarp and yellow tape everywhere.

“Oh, shit,” she mumbles under her breath as she stands. You keep your hand on her till she’s up, and then take a step back to look at the damage. She’s limping a bit, her bob cut bouncing as she hops on one foot. She’s much more concerned about the damage to the room than to herself. She bends down to fiddle with a broken piece of wood panel. It’s hanging in there, but if she keeps playing with it, it’ll warp. Then everyone will notice it’s not whole anymore. You watch the same thought pass through her eyes and she leaves it be. She stands gingerly on her foot and sways purposefully before listing a bit to the side, favoring her injured foot.

“Are you okay?” you ask her.

“Yeah. I’m cool. Uh,” she says before gesturing to the suite door. “Can we keep this between us? I really would like not to get fired.”

“Sure, no problem. I didn’ see nothin’,” you say. She smiles at you.

“Thanks!” she says. Then she finally realizes who you are and blurts out, “You’re James! Jay, right? Al’s nephew?”

You smile at her. “Once, removed.” She extends her hand and you shake it. She smells like baby powder. She’s also at least a foot taller than you, all lean muscle. She must play sports.

“Great! My name’s Clarice. I’m Mrs. Kettleburn’s assistant. My room’s right next to the shared bath. Drop by when you’re free, and we can hang out,” she says before going off. You spend a minute appreciating her low back tank top and nearly forget why you were there in the first place. Then you’re blushing as you go back the hall to change the sheets in the Blue Suite.

 

You hobble your way to the antique clock and down the slippery moist steps that lead to the dank cavern below the manor. There is construction going on, thick metal sheets you remember as the elevated flooring of the cave. There are metal poles and bricks protruding out of the ground. The Bruce in your time had covered the last three steps with a metal sheet, a bridge connecting the stairs to the Batcomputer.

There are wires running down the side of the steps, ending in huge looped spools down at the bottom. They are getting wet from the water pooling in the middle of the cavern. You suppose this Bruce hadn’t installed a pump yet, one that would siphon the water to other parts of the cave. It was the noisiest thing in your Bruce’s cave, turning itself on almost every Monday. You can hear it humming away for an hour at midnight.

Huh. You never meant to think of Bruce as _yours_. As far as you’re concerned, he took you in as a replacement Robin, even if he adopted you right out of Park Row. You being physically capable of serving justice in Gotham on the weekends are just one of the perks of the job. Being Robin is all you ever need to be.

The Bruce in your time had been making a fuss at your coming-of-age debut. _Sweet sixteen._ You were definitely not going to be _sweet_. You spent almost half a year arguing with Bruce about everything.

There had been one scary night after patrol where you were sure he was going to kick you out. You were chasing a perp that night all the way to the docks. He’d been a huge man with an equally disgusting rap sheet. You just wanted to scare him a little, put the fear of Batman in him, so you swung a bird-a-rang at his ankles. The man crumpled and fell off the pier. It had taken Batman and one homeless person to drag his wet, cold, sorry butt off the water. Batman had to do CPR.

Bruce was beyond pissed when you both got back to the Batcave. He hates saving perps with that kind of rap sheet. You’d gotten as far as packing a backpack when Dick showed up with a couple of tickets to a ski resort in Pennsylvania. It was three glorious days spent in the snow and drinking hot cocoa before Dick had to leave for an off-world mission with the Titans.

Things cooled off at the manor when you got back, a tentative peace that you tried hard not to pop. It still did and you don’t regret putting that scum in his place. Just that maybe you were too hard on him too soon and broke his collar bone. You’ve made him unfit for interrogation and nearly lost the missing people you were supposed to save.

Then the Joker happened. Bruce stuck in Sarajevo. His evil twin videotaping beating you to a pulp…

“Jay. How on earth did you get down here?” Alfred’s voice scolds you from the top of the stairs.

You get completely spooked, jumping and wobbling on your crutch. You regain your balance and throw the torch beam at Alfred. He covers his face from the glare.

“Point that down. No need to blind the bats,” Alfred says irritably.

“Sorry. I wanted to see if the clock still works,” you apologize, hobbling to meet Alfred at the foot of the stairs.

“You are far too vigorous for an injured young man,” Alfred comments as he stands to the side, letting you climb the stairs.

“I’m sure you’ve said that to Bruce about a million times,” you mutter.

“I would be saying that more often in the next decade then, if all of Bruce’s kids turn out like you,” Alfred responds. He climbs up behind you, and it’s a slow procession to the top of the stairs, into the passage and out of the antique clock.

You grin at him as he locks the clock into place. “You haven’t met the first Robin.”

“Two of you at the same time? Dear god.”

You pause, waiting for him to turn around. “You meant three, right? Bruce was there.”

“I’ll pretend you haven’t insulted the Master of the house,” Alfred declared, sniffing a bit at the thought of herding three stubborn people from active work. He directs you back to the servant quarters.

“You know,” you start, “about that leak? My Bruce installed a pump to drain off the water. Maybe he should start with that.”

Alfred lifts his brow at you. “ _Your_ Bruce?”

“Easier calling him that,” you say as you shrug back.

You haven’t meant to call anyone _yours_ but you’ve done that repeatedly in the past hour. If doing so can keep you sane for how long you’re stranded in ’94, then you’ve got no reason to knock it. _Your_ Bruce, _your_ Alfred, _your_ Batcave. It’s starting to sound really nice to you.

Alfred shakes his head but leaves you in the relative peace of the kitchen. You find yourself locked out of the study the next day.

 

Leslie takes the braces off you at the end of the month. She makes sure you get a good therapist in Gotham Medical. Mr. San Mateo writes you up for eight sessions in a month and then puts you through the best and most painful exercises you’ve done in the space of an hour. The fifteen minute massage at the end of the session made it almost worth the hassle. You know for a fact that Alfred and Leslie gives better massage than this. But beggars can’t be choosers, so you shut your trap and work at getting your knee and arm in working order asap.

Now that you’re out of your braces, you can accompany Mrs. Kettleburn with her grocery shopping. It’s Clarice’s day off and you learn quickly how Mrs. Kettleburn’s eerily efficient at delegating chores at people. You’ve never worked as hard on the manor before. Mrs. Kettleburn had you carrying groceries, peeling vegetables, pounding meat and stirring soup in an _afternoon_.

Alfred gives you an allowance every week. You think Mrs. Kettleburn is making every cent count.

 

One afternoon, you decided to do a bit of exploring and ended up in the ballroom. There’s someone in the upstairs balcony overlooking the garden, the forest and part of Central Gotham.

Alfred takes a lit cigarette off his lips and flicks the embers on a portable tray. You look at him incredulously. He takes notice of you and grimaces.

“I’m supposed to quit. Bad habits die hard, I’m afraid,” he says. He sucks in a lungful of smoke. You gulp.

“Uh, any chance you’d give me a stick?” you ask. Alfred looks at you dubiously.

“Where did you say Bruce got you?” he asks back, but he taps his box and you swipe the stick that comes out. You grin at him.

“Spoilers. C’mon, gimme a light. Gimme a light,” you say. He lights your stick with the end of his. You take in your first lungful in a month, and cough.

“Easy now,” Alfred says and he pats your back. The fumes go smoothly when you inhale your second hit. You blow the sweet smoke out. You burn a handful of minutes taking hits.

Alfred finishes his smoke first. He stubs it out in his portable ashtray.

“I don’t need to tell you this has to remain a secret,” he says as he tucks in his portable tray and cigar box. He smoothes his hand over his lapels and grips them in an authoritative fashion.

You wave at him. “Sure. I’ll tell ‘em you were polishing the chandelier.”

“Oh, the indignity of dusty light fixtures,” he says dryly. He pats your shoulder and goes back inside. After a while, you stub your stick. It’s burned near to the filter. You hide the evidence under a potted plant. There are a few old ones under there. _One more couldn’t hurt_ , you think.

 

**JUNE ‘94**

A car was driving up the path to the manor. It stops and Alfred steps out of the driver’s seat. He goes around the car, a Bentley, and opens the backseat door. A boy with black hair steps out. He’s in a puffy, leather jacket with a wide-neck tank and the baggiest black pants in history. He takes a carry-on out of the car with him and waves Alfred off when he reaches for it. Alfred heads to the boot and pulls out a parent version of the bag. They head inside through the double doors.

You rush out of the Orange Suite. Its windows are perfect for spying on guests arriving at the manor. You creep along the hallway, intent on making a good impression. Alfred’s going to make a case for you to live here. He wanted you to wait in the Grey Drawing room. You take initiative instead by meeting them first. You bend down and peep out the end of the hall, where the wall meets the grand staircase.

Alfred is taking both bags to the side as the boy takes off his shades. He has the bluest eyes you’ve seen. He takes in his home and the welcoming smiles on Thomas and Martha Wayne’s portraits.

“Welcome home, Master Bruce,” Alfred says with a small lilt to his lips.

“It’s good to be back, Al,” Bruce replies. He takes in a deep, solemn breath and turns to address his friend.

“Let’s get started. How are the preparations going?” he says, heading for his luggage. He takes the carry-on in his hand and leaves the bigger luggage for Alfred. They make their way to the foot of the stairs.

You slip back behind the wall. You can hear their heavy footsteps, climbing in complete sync.

“Splendid. I’ve secured your meeting with Mr. McNamara. You are expected to dine together at The Rainbow Room this Friday,” you hear Alfred say.

“Is there a way we can move that for tonight? I need those parts, Al,” Bruce says, with a slight edge in his tone.

“And you will get them, Bruce. Employ some of that patience you learned in Taipei,” Alfred says. “In the meantime, we will work on getting your circadian rhythm back from Singapore.”

You take in a deep breath and walk calmly out of the wall partition.

“Hey, Alfie,” you say. Bruce looks plenty surprised, if you’re reading his eyes right. You decide to act innocent anyway. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello,” Bruce replies, unsure. He dismisses you and lifts his brow at Alfred.

“I was going to tell you about my unexpected house guest,” Alfred says as he pins you with a withering look. “Bruce, meet James, my nephew, once removed. Jay, this is the young Master Bruce Wayne, my employer.”

“Nice to meet you! Alfie’s told me all about you,” you say, holding out your hand. Bruce takes it in his and gives it one firm pump. His hand is a little bit smaller than yours, and the thought makes you sorta giddy. Bruce flashes you with his trademark CEO smile.

“Nice to meet you too, Jay. Should I call you Jay or Jamie?” Bruce says. You give him as good as you got, smiling with all your teeth.

“You can call me Jay,” you say. His _Brucie Wayne_ act is making you itchy.

“Jay then,” he says before yawning widely, obviously making a production of it. “It’s been a long flight home and I am _knackered_! I’m taking nap. Holler for Alfred if you need anything,” Bruce says before turning briskly down the hall.

“Keep the shirt! It looks great on you!” he says before he slips into the hallway to the private suites. You look down at the yellow collared shirt you’re wearing.

“Don’t look at me. He hasn’t worn that shirt in years,” Alfred says when you pout at him.

“You made me look like a shirt stealer,” you whine.

“You are, aren’t you? You’re also the bellboy. Carry these to Bruce’s suite while we get dinner ready,” Alfred says, handing you the luggage. You stagger under its weight. “It’s the third door to the right.”

Alfred walks briskly down the staircase to the hallway leading to the kitchen. You look at the luggage, at Alfred’s retreating back, then at the empty hall. You roll your eyes and go after Bruce.

The manor changed little in your perspective. The rugs are new and surprisingly red. The wallpaper is brown instead of rose. The wood is a lighter shade than you’re familiar with. There are more of the occasional decorative tables and vases than you care for. There’s also the most disgusting urn you’ve ever laid eyes on. Alfred must have done a bit of redecorating sometime between the seventeen odd years before you moved in. Or maybe Dickie did it for him. You won’t put it past the original Robin to have broken a couple of ornamental vases during his time. Lord knows how many you broke, playing around the manor while hyped up on birthday cake sugar.

The third suite door is open. You shuffle in with your burden.

“Hey, Alfie said he’s gonna make dinner now,” you improvise as you set down the huge case.

Bruce is busy putting on a shirt when you look up. _Wow_. His back is littered with bruises and when he turns, you see a bit of medical bandage wrapped along his right side.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” Bruce says. He looks irritated as he yanks his clothes to lay flat on his body. You shrug. You have a lot of experience dealing with a pissed-off Bruce.

“Ain’ gonna see sumthin’ I never see before,” you say and you leave before he can say anything back.

You pride yourself in your quick reflexes and stealth, but when you hear the telltale shoe clicks on the floor, it’s already too late to turn to a different corridor. Bruce catches up to you in no time at all and you brace yourself when he wraps an arm around your bad shoulder.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to chase you away. It’s been a bad couple of weeks for me. I got mauled by a tiger, days before my flight home,” Bruce lies smoothly. You stop walking and Bruce takes his arm off your shoulder.

“How about I take you out for a night in town? My treat. It’s the least I can do for being such a grouch,” Bruce says, and then he yawns. “But tomorrow night. Is that OK?”

You look at him, confused. He had no business being buddy/pals with Alfred’s _nephew, once removed_. Then you remember letting slip how you’ve seen injuries like his before. Never mind that it’s Bruce’s wounds you’re remembering. _God_! You’re left eye still looks like a zombie flick, up close.

You wave him off and decline his offer, but he’s faster than you. Even when you’re older by a year, he’s still faster than you.

“It’s a date then! Six sharp tomorrow! Jay, is it? Really nice to meet you,” Bruce says. He pats you on the shoulder twice before going back to his suite. You massage your aching shoulder and gape at him as he disappears, slamming the door behind him.

 

“I think I just auditioned myself as Oliver Twist,” you say when you stumble back to the kitchens. Alfred is kneading bread while the cook, Mrs. Kettleburn, is keeping watch of the soup. It smells great.

“What have you done?” Alfred says, looking up enough to give you a disapproving glare.

“Nothing! I mean, I might’ve given the impression I’ve seen the body of a young boy before, because _hello?_ I’m a young boy!” you rant as you sit on one of the tall stool by the counter across from Alfred. “But I think he thought I meant the bruises on his back. What was he doing in Singapore anyway?”

Mrs. Kettleburn clicks her tongue sharply at her cooking.

“Trying to catch his death, I say. Do you remember when he went on that ski trip in Alaska last year? He came home with a broken leg and two broken ribs!” she says. You watch her vigorous stirring with some fear.

“I keep telling that boy he needs to slow down, and you,” she says, pointing her spoon at Alfred, “Keep on being a yes-man. An enabler of bad habits, you are.”

“And, as I keep telling _you_ , Cecy, he’s going to be alright. He’s going to grow out of it sooner or later,” Alfred says. He parts the dough into six ovals and makes precise thin diagonal cuts on top with a scalpel.

“If the boy’s parents were here—” Mrs. Kettleburn starts, but Alfred cuts her off.

“They would have all been in Alaska and we’d have to deal with three broken legs instead of one,” Alfred says. He takes the sheet to the oven. You blink your eyes at the surge of hot air before Alfred closes the oven door.

Mrs. Kettleburn glares at Alfred as she haphazardly throws spices in the soup, the sharp scent of herbs reaching your nose. You think this must be what heaven smells like. While you’re blissed out on the smell of soup, Alfred comes to her side and rubs her back soothingly. It’s a quick action you nearly miss, and both adults in the room are blushing at the thought of having been caught by you.

Mrs. Kettleburn goes to the sink while Alfred moves to check the fridge on the other side of the room. Before you can make a teasing comment about the earlier scene, Mrs. Kettleburn smacks a bowl of potatoes and a paring knife in front of you. You blink up at her.

“If you’re Oliver Twist, you better look the part,” she says. She returns to the stove, setting a second soup pan on the range. You hazard a look at Alfred, who’s hiding his face in the freezer box.

Frowning, you pick up a potato.

 

You end up wearing Bruce’s old clothes again. Slim brown pants and a red button-up shirt. You’re wearing a white tank top underneath it. You look the very top of fashion as you mess with your cuffs. Your wrists are itchy. Alfred taps your wriggling digits one too many times before he gives up. Bruce comes down the stairs in another one of those baggy pants and a thin close-fitting turtleneck. You’re sweating just looking at him.

“I hope I wasn’t too late,” Bruce says, his hair flopping wetly on his forehead, threatening to poke his eyes. Alfred fetches a comb and fixes his hair.

“Nah, you’re alright,” you say. The lateness is all _Brucie Wayne_ , you know. On the other hand, you have never seen Bruce let Alfred fix his hair in the three years you’ve known him. You stare at them in horror. If you end up seeing a lot of Bruce being a kid… You’re not going to stop respecting his authority, of course, but it’s going to be hard pretending to be scared of him when you’ve seen him like this.

Bruce turns to you, his hair combed and gelled into place.

“Are you ready? Let’s go,” he says as he leads the way to the double doors. You follow behind him.

It doesn’t surprise you when Bruce gets into the backseat of the Bentley and his arms are splayed across the car upholstery. He taps the seat beside him and you sit down. You feel car dipping slightly as Alfred gets into the driver’s seat.

“Where to, Master Bruce?” he asks through the small window of the privacy screen. Bruce looks at you and purses his lips.

“Perhaps the tailor’s,” he says absentmindedly. “Where do you want to go, Jay? I know the best haunts in Gotham. Good food, good company, good music—”

“I’m okay, really. I’ve been here for a month already, you know? And Gotham’s not that different from where I came from,” you say. It’s not lying, exactly, since the Gotham you know isn't that different from this Gotham. Bruce’s mouth quirks up a bit.

“ _And_ I’m a Gothamite to the bone. We can’t have you thinking Gotham is just like any other city out there. Alfred, let’s go to _Rasika_ ,” he says. Alfred lifts a brow at the both of you.

“As you wish, Master Bruce,” he says, not disguising the dryness in his tone.

“Alfred hates the place. I haven’t figured out why,” Bruce whispers over to you as the car moves out of the driveway. You bite your lip and refuse to comment. It’s a long drive to the gates and down the hill. Bruce’s eyes are twinkling. He leans closer to your ear.

“Have you seen how he acts around Cecilia? You’d think he’s a teenager like us instead of the forty year old grandpa he is,” he murmurs. You try to suppress a laugh. You cough a bit when Alfred’s eyes turn to the both of you.

“It’s like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar,” you whisper back when Alfred’s attention is back on the road.

“The honeypot,” Bruce nods.

“The mother lode,” you nod back.

“He should, Cecilia’s about a decade younger than he is,” Bruce adds.

“Is it still cradle-robbing when they’re both over thirty?” you say.

“I can still hear you. Don’t make me turn this car around,” Alfred says as he exits Millionaires’ Mile. Bruce laughs, full and high. You laugh along with him.

“Sorry Alfred,” he says at the same time you say, “Sorry, Alfie.”

Alfred makes a point of narrowing his eyes at the both of you when he tweaks the rearview mirror.

“So, Jay,” Bruce starts as he lounges back on the car seat. “I don’t think you’ve told me where you’re from? Your dialect is hard to place.”

“New York,” you answer, settling into the gentle hum of the car and the soft, leather seats. You and Alfred spend a couple of afternoons working on your alias while you were laid up at the hospital. “I’m an only child. My dad got laid off at work. He can’t afford me anymore, so here I am. Alfie’s been kind to me and, I swear, I’ll get out of your hair by next year.”

Bruce hums.

“Have you any friends back home? Anyone you can write to, or send an email?” Bruce says when the car turns into Central Gotham. It’s fairly quiet inside the car. A crossing pedestrian raises her middle finger at a bus that cut in while she crossed the street. You cheer for her silently.

“I haven’t got that many friends,” you say, “but maybe my dad would like to get word once in awhile.”

You surprise yourself by considering it. Not to write home to your real dad (because he haven’t had you yet) but to keep a journal of your huge time travelling screw up. You will hide it somewhere only you will know. Make it like a time-capsule. Maybe bury it in the cemetery?

“We’re here,” Bruce says. You snap out of your reverie to peer through Bruce’s side window. You laugh.

The establishment is obviously not the five-star restaurant you’ve been dreading. It looks like a family run business that sells burgers, fries and a helping of traditional Indian food. Bruce puts on his sunglasses and opens the car door,

 

The food is delicious. You eat what you can and leave the spiciest, hottest meals for Bruce. You calm down a lot during dinner, keeping friendly banter between you while Alfred watches the waiters bring out your dishes. You suspect the reason he’s a bit pissed is because he can’t join your meal. Alfred does love a good curry. Sometimes, you spy Bruce casually offering Alfred food when you aren’t looking.

All in all, the meal is a success. You’re photographed by some paparazzi there before Alfred whisks you off to buy you clothes.

Bruce leads the way to the tailor’s, an office a couple of floors up a modern-looking Wayne Enterprises building. The lady minding the front desk greets him in enthusiastic Italian. She kisses both his cheeks before picking up the phone. You catch bits and pieces of their conversation ( _something about a deer, a brother and a goat?_ ) before you tune them out. Alfred is right behind, so you don’t dare wander off. You stare at the mannequins on display instead.

The designs seem to come from one source at least, as if the clothes were made as a set. You notice an eerie similarity between the clothes on the dolls and Bruce’s preferences. A short but stocky man strides in from the back door and greets Bruce the same way the desk lady did. They talk a bit more in Italian, the man cringing at a word you think means ‘tiger’ while Bruce laughs on.

When he turns to you, it’s with his _Brucie_ smile.

“Gianni, this is Jay. Jay, meet my friend, Gianni. He makes clothes for a living,” he says. The man, Gianni, gives him a playful tap on the shoulder before moving close to you for a vigorous handshake.

“A great pleasure to meet you, Jay,” he says, his Italian accent apparent through his breathy voice. You plaster a smile on your face while you shake hands.

“Nice to meet you too, Gianni,” you say.

 

“Ah, I knew I forgot something. Alfred, turn the car around,” Bruce says while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What’s happening?” You ask as Alfred takes the car around the block.

“Miriam had begged me to come see her brother’s show at de l’Arte Nouveau. I’d never hear the end of it if I don't show up,” Bruce says. You take a deep breath.

“I’ll be good. We can go,” you say.

“That helps me out. Thanks, Jay,” Bruce says. His smile gets wider and his lips tighter by the second. His eyes get that glazed-over look. When he leaves the car, he’s completely into _Brucie Wayne_ mode.

You don’t see Bruce resurface for the rest of the night. You delegate yourself to being Alfred’s little shadow for the hour _Brucie_ spends circling the Gallery, slipping in and out of conversations and social circles. You tire yourself looking out for him and grab yourself a plate of cheese and grapes. You get a plate of cake too, and you take both to Alfred. He smiles at you while you share it. He seems to have forgiven your teasing earlier.

You do circle close to the bar in hopes of free champagne. Bruce takes your glass the first time, and Alfred raises his brow at you on the second. You give up for now and sheepishly return to being Alfred’s shadow.

Every time _Brucie_ seems like he’s looking for you, you run to the bathroom. So far, he’s only managed to introduce you to two twenty-somethings from Yale who can’t stop talking about golf. They keep looking at you like you’re dirt. You eat with your mouth partially open and make loud mastication sounds. The young men leave you alone, and you go back to Alfred. When he holds his palm up, you give him a high five. You think you see Bruce smile at you but when you look at him, he’s laughing at something someone said.

 

Gianni comes by three days later, in the afternoon, to take your measurements again. He also brings a portfolio filled with sketches of clothing styles and colors. You don’t think you’ve spoken words longer than two syllables that afternoon. He promises to make you a lot of active wear when it's the only design that catches your attention.

Dinner is a quiet affair with only Mrs. Kettleburn and Alfred in the house. You grab a sandwich earlier on and beg off dinner. You stay awake in your bed, staring at non-existent cracks in the ceiling.

You need to get back to your time asap. The only problem is _how_. You tried using the watch, but it's definitely fried. The bottom has melted completely, and you keep it as a souvenir of sorts in the bottom of your drawer.

You think about going to Central City or Keystone City to look for the _first_ Flash. You’ve never seen him personally, but both the Flash and Kid Flash in your time have talked about him. You think you can ask him to help you get back. It’s just a matter of finding him.

You’re contemplating finding a computer around the manor when you hear a faint noise. You sit up. There it is again, a slight brushing sound. You poke your head out the hall. There’s light in the kitchen. You peek through the door.

Bruce is looming over the coffeemaker. He seems intent on glaring at the machine to make it boil water faster. You open the door.

“You’re back,” you say. Bruce jumps in shock and glares at you. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen his brows clash together like that. This must be the first time fifteen year old Bruce had let himself look anything aside from polite and pleasant in front of you. You enter the room.

“Oh, it's just you. Can’t sleep?” Bruce says when he regains composure. He gives you a tired smile.

“Neither can you, if you're here making coffee at,” you say, making a show of reading the wall clock, “one in the AM.”

Bruce keeps an eye on you as you stride to the cup cabinet. You take a small pack of mixed nuts from under your cup, a bright red one you bought at a dollar store. You close the shelf and tear the package open. You have to replace this one later.

“That wasn’t the pantry,” Bruce says. You laugh at the baffled look on his face. You hop your bum on the counter next to him and pop a couple in your mouth.

“I like keeping food wherever,” you tell him. You hold out the packet to him. He shakes his head. “Your loss,” you say.

You get a good look at him when he goes back to glaring at the coffeemaker. He’s wearing a tank top, something the old Bruce would never wear in the manor. There are some bruises on his arms, as if he fell off gymnastic equipment. You hope that was true, and that it’s not from him doing stupid stunts all around Gotham.

The coffeemaker makes a loud click, and Bruce takes the carafe to the table. He gestures for you to follow. You jump off the counter and shuffle to the table. He waves the carafe at you, but you shake your head. He frowns.

“I was hoping you’ll drink too. Then Alfred can get mad at the both of us,” Bruce sighs dramatically. He sits down and nurses his coffee

“So, uh, what time did you come in? I didn’t notice,” you say. It's unnerving to spend time with Bruce when he’s not studying a piece of evidence or brooding by the Batcomputer.

“Not very late. About 11pm,” he says. “But I still have work to do. I fear business never sleeps.”

“No rest for the wicked.” You smirk at him. “But do you really need to do so much? You’re still fifteen. I don’t think anyone will be trusting you with their shares yet or whatever.”

“It's more like homework. I need to figure out how to manage the company before I take over,” he says. “Besides, I’ve always been a major player in the Wayne Foundation, and whew! Now _that_ _one_ is a lot of work.”

“What do you do there?” you ask.

“Bits and pieces. There are many ways the Wayne Foundation can give back to the community. We’re here to bridge the gap between the underprivileged people of Gotham and the governmental relief, providing most anything from free clinics and medical supplies to educational loans based on need and merit. We keep ourselves fairly busy,” Bruce says. You can’t help but feel he’d rehearsed this line one too many times.

“Yeah, but I asked what _you_ do,” you fire back.

“I write checks,” Bruce says, and you laugh. You spy a faint smile on his face.

“Your friend, Gianni, came by. He took my numbers again. He’s making me some active wear,” you say, changing the subject.

“That’s good news,” Bruce says. He takes a fortifying gulp of coffee.

“He’s also making me school clothes,” you add.

“School is important,” he says.

“But _you’re_ not going to school,” you reason with him.

“I took my GED last year,” he says.

“I wanna do that too,” you say.

“If that’s what you want. Shouldn’t you be talking to Alfred about this?” He says. His brows are tied in a delicate knot and you know you need to head this off _asap_.

“I’m picking up steam for when I tell Alfie, you know? If you got my back, I doubt he’ll say no,” you say.

“I see. In that case, count me in,” Bruce says. The curl in his brows is gone and he’s back to sipping his coffee. You smirk at him.

“You can be my backup. My sidekick,” you tease. Bruce lifts a brow at you as he pours himself more coffee. Then his lips quirk at the sides.

“If it helps you sleep at night,” he fires back. You laugh at him some more.

“Oh, by the way, do you have a computer I can borrow? I saw this really cool thing on TV and I wanna know more about it,” you say. You lean back, satisfied with yourself.

“There should be one in the library. Didn’t Alfred give you a tour?” he says.

“Yeah, but I figured I'd ask you. This being your house and all,” you say. You pop more nuts in your mouth. Now, it's Bruce that laughs at you. You spend a quiet minute finishing off your snack.

Bruce sets his cup down between you as he reaches for the carafe.

“Bruce, is that coffee?”

You both jump. Alfred is glaring at Bruce as he strides into the room. You grab Bruce’s cup close to you.

“What have I told you about coffee after midnight?” Alfred says.

“Sorry Alfie. It’s mine. I’ll clean up,” you lie. Alfred’s gaze falls on you.

“And why are _you_ awake?” he asks, rounding on you.

“It happens sometimes. I'm a growing kid,” you say and you shrug.

“Who needs discipline, routine and to not snack on _nuts_ after midnight,” Alfred says.

“What can I say? I got hungry,” you say. You hastily hide the pack by tucking it between your waist garters. Alfred squints at you.

“This party is over. Both of you are going to bed. Not you,” he says, pointing a finger at you when you stand up, “Clean up. I want that carafe spotless when I come back. Maybe that’ll teach you about the consequences of lying.”

He frog marches Bruce out of the kitchen, and you dump the rest of the coffee in the sink.

 

You’ve been watching the news very closely. _Lion King_ is premiering in theaters this weekend. You’re raring to go. Clarice says you look like a squirrel on crack. You don’t pay her any mind.

The day comes. You’ve been keeping the money Alfred gives you hidden between the mattress and the bed frame. You slide two fives in one of your socks and a ten in the other. That should be enough to cover the ticket and something to munch on.

“What are you up to, young man?” Mrs. Kettleburn calls you over from her seat by the oven. It’s a slow day and she’s finished having afternoon tea.

“I’m going to see a movie, Mrs. K,” you tell her. You give her a salute and all but run for the door.

“Be home by dinner, alright?” she calls out to you.

You’re a couple of steps out in the hallway when you stop and think for a second. You go back to the kitchen.

“Did you forget something?” Mrs. Kettleburn asks.

“Yes,” you say and feel yourself blush. _D’youwannacomeandsee?_ comes out in a rush out of your lips.

Mrs. Kettleburn looks at you like you grew a second head. “What?”

“D’you wanna see the movie with me?” you repeat, slower this time.

She stares at you for a second before giving you a calculating look. “What kind of movie is it?”

“It’s, uh, animation. Kid’s stuff, really,” you say. “It’s gonna be good. I swear!”

“Really?” she looks unconvinced.

“You dun even hafta pay, ma’am. My treat. We can get some fizzies and sweets,” you say with cheek. She playfully smacks your arm.

“I’m not that old. Quit it,” she says when you open your mouth. She gets up from her chair. “Are we leaving right now?”

“I can wait while you go be beautiful,” you tell her, giving her a winning smile.

She laughs at you. “You’re hilarious. I’ll just change my clothes and get my hat.”

You wait for her by the stairs. Alfred passes by and he throws you a querying look. “Going somewhere, young man?”

You bounce on your toes. “I’m taking Mrs. K to the movies.”

Alfred’s eyebrows do all the scolding for him.

“This is a one in a lifetime opportunity, Alfie! I’m cashing in,” you explain.

“And how will you get there, lad?” Alfred asks.

“Uh,” you say, shuffling your feet. “I was hoping you could…” Alfred’s looking mutinous then his face clears. You take in his blank surprise before turning.

Mrs. Kettleburn comes in from the servant’s hall, dressed in a white shirt with small sleeves and baggy red pants with white polkadots. She’s holding a boater hat in her hand. You feel slightly underdressed in your casual jeans and patterned shirt.

You whistle low. Alfred swats at your shoulder.

“Is there a problem?” she asks the both of you.

“There’s no problem. We’re just finishing our chat,” Alfred smiles at her. You smirk at him.

“You can come with us if you lose the jacket,” you comment. Alfred _tuts_ at you as he runs his hands through the lapels of his jacket. You share a glance with Mrs. Kettleburn. She loops her arm around Alfred’s elbow and you tug at Alfred’s pants.

“It’s a nice day out,” Mrs. Kettleburn says idly. Alfred has a thoroughly cornered look on his face.

“Where are you taking my household, Jay?”

You turn. Bruce is making his way down the stairs.

That is how you end up going to the movies with your _family_. Bruce had taken the role of a middle-low class teenager to heart, wearing the drabbest clothes you’ve ever seen him wear. He keeps stealing your popcorn too. You keep your promise to Mrs. Kettleburn and pay for her ticket and popcorn. Bruce raises his brow when you bend over to slide out the fivers in your socks. The other brow goes up when he sees the poster of what you plan on watching.

“Don’t judge,” you admonish him. “This is going to be great! Trust me.”

Mrs. Kettleburn sits behind you with Alfred while Bruce sits next to you. The movie starts with sunrise and you sit back and enjoy.

 

**JULY ‘94**

There’s no time to pester rich, young heirs the next morning. You join Alfred and Mrs. Kettleburn at the Wet Market down by the docks. They use you as their pack mule. You think your muscles are growing thicker just by carrying sacks of flour around. Alfred raises his brow at you and refuses to comment.

But when you lay on your bed that afternoon, muscles aching in familiar places, you think wistfully about the training you’re missing back home. Bruce will be starting you on stretches and exercise by now. Next week, you may be joining patrol again.

You peek out the hallway and silently make your way to the welcome hall. Instead of heading right as you’ve always done this last month, you head to the opposite hallway. The rugs here are the same bright red all around the manor. You stop in front of the second door.

Alfred had kept you locked out of the gym during that first month because you were recuperating. Your therapy sessions ended unceremoniously last week so you feel no guilt at doing this.

You take out a hair pin from your pocket. It’s Clarice’s. The both of you have been getting along really well. She keeps on calling you _padawan_ and, once you consider you’re in 1994, you reluctantly accept the nickname. It’s too bad she’s five years older than you.  You wrinkle your nose at the prospect of dating her when she’s thirty-eight years old in 2011. She looks like the marrying type, and you’re not one for destroying families.

You crack open the door and walk into a small-ish sitting room. It’s got one loveseat, a coffee table, some decorative stuff, and a door to the side. That door isn’t locked, and you enter with ease. You’ve reached the gym.

It’s beautiful. One wall is covered from top to bottom with mirrors, and all the exercise equipment faces it. There’s a treadmill and a bench press in the back of the room. Free weights and bars are right in front of the mirrors. In the middle of the room is a sparring mat. You walk around, checking out the equipment and machinery.

After the euphoria of finding a functioning gym has gone down, you frown. The room is missing one vital component you can’t help noticing. There’s no gymnastics equipment. You guess the sparring mat can take a bit of tumbling and you can use some of the racks as a balance beam. You bite your lip. There’s no sense in Bruce investing money in some springboard, cushioned mat, and wedges. You think he should have a vault or a pommel horse at least. The ceiling’s too low for rings.

Beggars can’t be choosers, you think, and you go by the mirrors for some stretching.

 

You lose track of time doing handstands, cartwheels, and jumps. There’s not enough room to do everything at once, so you improvise. Careful not to topple over the treadmill, you do handstands and then jump to the lifting machine. You circle the room, your feet never touching the floor or the mats. You feel like you’re playing The Floor Is Lava but you don’t care.

After a while, you give one big jump towards the tallest equipment. It tilts with you on top, and you spend half a second thinking it will topple over. It steadies, and you let out a winning yell. You jump down, doing at least one flip, and land with your feet firmly on the ground. You stretch your hands out for a silent audience.

Someone claps behind you. You whirl around, your posture halfway to Robin’s battle stance. Bruce is still clapping, slouching against the wood-paneled walls. His lips are curled in a slight smile you recognize as awe and wariness.

“That’s was impressive. Where did you learn to move like that?” he says when he finishes. You open your mouth and close it.

“A-around. I’d done some odd shows here and there,” you lie. “Where did you come from? I didn’t see you come in.”

You walk towards Bruce, and he moves away from the wall, which wasn’t a wall, by the way, but a concealed door.

“Where does that door lead to?” you ask him, your hand already clasped tight around the knob. He’s right next to you, and you take him in— his jogging pants and tank top. The towel around his neck is the only white thing on him. Everything else is black.

“See for yourself,” he says with a shrug. You wipe the sweat off your brow with the back of your hand and open the door. Behind it is a tiled bathroom with what looks like a closed shower. There are some toiletries on the counter next to the sink, but only one set of towels.

“Unreal,” you say under your breath as you walk on cool tiles. There’s a door at the end of the bath. From this side, the showers are completely hidden by a wall. Bruce sneaks in from behind you and pushes the door open. You’re back at the small sitting room again.

Bruce closes the door behind you, and it vanishes into the wood-paneled wall. You put your hands on it instantly, feeling for the grooves and hinges. It’s still there. The door knob is painted in its exact shade.

“That is so cool,” you beam at Bruce.

“Yes,” he says.

“Wow,” you sigh, and fake a cough when you start to feel like a kid in a candy store. “Well, I better get going. Mrs. Kettleburn might be looking for me.”

“Jay,” he calls out and you freeze, your hand halfway to the door leading to the hallway. You turn around.

“Yeah?” you ask, your face a picture of innocence.

“I locked those doors before I went out,” he says. _Shit_.

“I dunno man. The door opened fine for me. Maybe you forgot?” you ask back. Bruce frowns at you. The guilt meter in your brain is going nuts. You bite your lower lip.

Bruce lets you stew for a minute before shrugging.

“If you teach me that move you did with the dipping bar, I’ll call us even,” he says, the CEO smile gracing his lips. It’s irritating seeing it on him. You keep with the cherubic act for three more seconds before calling it quits. Damn. This Bruce is sharper against manipulation than your Bruce.

“I don’t know if I can teach it,” you say, running your hand through your hair. It comes out dripping in sweat and you wipe your hand on your shirt. Bruce scrunches his nose at the action. “You don’t have gymnastic equipment.”

“That didn’t look like gymnastics,” Bruce says. His eyes are electric blue and focused on you. You wilt under it.

“It’s a bit advanced, okay? And I dun wanna be responsible for you or nothin’,” you mumble at him, looking at the decorative vase on the side of the room. Your gaze flicks back to his and this time you don’t cower. You plant your feet down, cross your arms on your chest, and raise your nose.

“Take it or leave it, B,” you say, your inner showman coming out at the wrong time. Bruce raises a brow at you before slowly raising his palms in surrender.

“Will you promise never to enter this room without me?” Bruce says.

“Deal. I promise. It’s just a friggin’ room,” you mumble, your hand going for the knob and turning. You open the door by a sliver when a hand on your arm stops you. The air is colder out in the hallway.

“You are my guest as much as Alfred’s. Please respect my privacy in my own home,” he says, and it’s the closest you’ve ever heard him sounding like your Bruce. You grimace.

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say and you peek at his face. He’s got his poker face on again. He lets you go, and you head straight for your room. You don’t come out till dinner.

 

It’s a fine hot day in Gotham. You lay down under the shade of a tree. It’s huge. Its trunk is easily as thick as about three of you. You put your arms behind your head as a pillow and you place your cap on your face.

“Sleeping on the job?” Bruce’s voice calls out to you.

You lift your cap off your face. He’s dressed in jogging pants and a blue tank top. You frown at him and put the cap back on your face. “It’s just a bit of weeding and I’m nearly done.”

A light gust of wind blows through the grounds.

“Hmm, I never thought looking up at trees can be so relaxing,” he comments. You take your cap off your face again. Bruce has lain down next to you, his hand held against twinkling sunlight passing through leaves. He blinks slowly, and you watch his eye lashes move.

You take a deep breath and toss your cap on his chest. He lifts his brow at you, but he wears your cap. You snort at him.

“It’s for your face. All kinds of things fall off of trees,” you say. Bruce looks at you suspiciously, and you point next to his ear. His eyes widen.

There’s a tiny caterpillar hanging on a thread tied somewhere up the tree. The wind gust must’ve blown it off its leaf. It keeps on climbing at its slow, steady pace. A minute passes by, and it has covered about an inch’s space, maybe two.

You and Bruce keep watching the worm till it gets further up its thread and you both lose interest. You turn to each other.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” you say at the same time he says, “We need to talk.”

You both stop. You bite your lip, and Bruce averts his gaze. You sit up.

“I’m gonna go first, okay?” you ask. He boosts himself up on his elbows and gives you his most attentive gaze. You take it as your cue to start. “I was curious and invaded your privacy. I was being an ass yesterday. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Bruce says. He turns his gaze from your face and tears a blade of grass from the ground. “I may have been too harsh. I didn’t think you needed access to the gym, and I acted poorly as your host.”

He lets the shredded blade of grass fall from his hand.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Bruce starts again, but he falters when he looks at you. “I’m sorry too.”

You smile at him, and Bruce smiles back. You flop back down on the grass and stare at the canopy of leaves.

“Good. Now that’s outta the way, we can be friends again,” you say with a bit of smug.

“I didn’t know we stopped being friends,” Bruce replies but when you look at him, he’s smirking. He catches your eye and winks before putting the cap on his face. You laugh at him.

 

“What in the world?” Alfred says as he walks by Bruce and you sometime later. You’re locked in a fierce competition, doing handstands with a split. The rules are easy. Whoever loses their balance and falls is the loser. The winner gets bragging rights.

“Hi, Al,” Bruce says, angling his red face towards the butler. “Did you need me for something?”

“Yes. Detective Gordon is in the Grey Sitting. He wishes to speak to you and check up on your wellbeing,” Alfred says.

“Alright. We’ll be done in a bit,” Bruce says. He shifts on his hands and you can feel a drop of sweat slowly trickle down your side. It’s making you itchy.

“Perhaps a truce? Master Bruce, Jay,” Alfred interjects when a minute passes by and both of you look nowhere near done.

“Okay,” Bruce answers. All he does is shift his hands.

“You go first,” you urge him. There’s a slight tremble running up and down your arms.

“No. You,” Bruce counters.

Alfred heaves a loud sigh. “I’ll go fetch tea then, _Master_ Bruce.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bruce says absentmindedly. You’re feeling gravity gaining on you and sweat is dripping down your forehead. In front of you, Bruce just looks really red in the face.

“Oh man! Go down already!” you whine at him as Alfred leaves.

 

**AUGUST ‘94**

The following morning is spent in vicious pain. You suspect you pulled some muscles doing stunts in Bruce’s gym. Your thighs and arms are sore but no matter how much you beg off of work, Mrs. Kettleburn detains you in the kitchen the whole morning. At least you have Clarice keeping you company. She threatens to bring her friend in tomorrow. They’re planning on exploring the trails all over the Wayne Manor grounds. You say yes despite the twinges of pain running up your thighs.

The manor you know is all grass and little trees, with a private cemetery around the back. This Wayne Manor has grounds easily twice as big. There’s an apple orchard somewhere as well. Ricky refuses to say where it is, but that doesn’t stop you from looking for it.

Bruce shows up during lunch time. His hair is a bird’s nest, and he has dark shadows under his eyes. He looks ready to fall into his soup. You set coffee down for everyone at the table, and you silently thank whoever made the full pot. Bruce looks more like his usual self after nursing a cup. You wonder if this is what leads to Bruce needing two cups of coffee to function at noon, and you frown at yourself for being too indulgent. Clarice giggles at you from behind her salad, and you throw a grape-tomato in her dish. She pierces it with her fork and makes a great show of relishing the bite. You roll your eyes exasperatedly.

“I’m sorry about last week’s change of plans,” Bruce apologizes. He’s on his second cup of coffee, and it takes Mrs. Kettleburn gesturing to his soup for him to eat.

“Ish awright,” you try to speak over a mouthful of bread. You swallow when the whole table stares at you.

“It’s alright. I mean, I get it. You couldn’t have gotten out of it. It’s okay,” you repeat clearly.

“I need to be at Miranda’s party this afternoon, but let’s make plans for tomorrow. The Gotham Bay is beautifully empty this time of year. We can picnic there,” Bruce says.

You swallow what you’re chewing before answering. “I can’t,” you say, “Clarice and I are going into the woods tomorrow. Wanna come with?”

Clarice kicks you hard in the shin, and you let out a strangled yelp. You glare at her. Bruce’s brows furrow. You keep on eating.

“I can’t make it tomorrow after all. Someone needs me to play cricket for their team. Some other day then,” he says before busying himself with eating soup.

You look at him weirdly but let it go. Trying to cater to Bruce and Brucie in a day always tires you out. You’re actually relieved he doesn’t want to join your hiking tomorrow.

During clean up, you get struck with the reason why Bruce didn’t want to join the hike. You almost hit yourself with the dry china in your hands. You forget the private cemetery at the back of the woods. Obviously, Bruce avoids it like the plague.

“I’m an idiot,” you say under your breath. Clarice hands you another wet dish and you set the dry one aside.

“Yes, you are,” she says when you take the wet dish. She fishes for the next plate to wash. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

 

You’re standing in front of Bruce’s suite door. You rap your knuckles on the door in three snappish knocks.

“Just a minute!” A voice calls out from within. The lock clicks and the door opens. Bruce finishes pulling on a blue long-sleeved top. You peek at the three pink gashes on his right side before he pulls down his shirt.

“Jay! Did you want to use the gym?” Bruce asks.

“Later, but that’s not—” you start, and then you clench your jaw. “I meant— I wanted— I’m sorry about lunch. I was stupid, and I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. We’re going to the apple orchard. You can still come with us.”

Bruce’s face is the perfect poker face. You can't read him at all. You hold your breath.

“Thank you, Jay. I wasn’t offended in the least. However, I really do need to show my face at Edward’s cricket tomorrow. Rain check,” Bruce says. He disappears behind the door and comes out with a silver blazer. He’s fastening a watch single-handedly on his wrist. He opens the door wide open and uses wide strides, his legs taking him halfway down the hall in a blink.

“Tell the staff not to wait up. I’ll be dining out,” he calls back and you hear him take the stairs two steps at a time. You hear the front door open and close.

 

_You come home close to ten pm. You had to stop a robbery while passing 27th and Hale Street. One of the perps had a knife that tore your mask. You think he might have nicked your chin. You keep your glove off your face anyway._

_There’s an electrical fence around the bottom of the hill. You jiggle the net closest to the pole. It comes loose, and you shimmy your way through. You take care to reattach the connections before you go. It’s a long walk up the hill, across the woods, to get to the manor grounds. Most of it is concrete road but it’s still a hike. You’re winded when you reach the double doors._

_You put your hand on the door but it opens without your help._

_“Bruce! You’re home,” you say when you see him standing behind the door. “When did you get back?”_

_He smiles slow and predatory. You feel the hair on your arms rise._

_“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says and he swings something at you. You’re too slow to dodge and whatever it was hits you like a truck. You bounce off the stairs and hit your head on the sidewalk._

_Your vision is spinning. You try to stand despite the dizziness, putting your palms on the floor. Bruce comes after you with a long blunt weapon. He lifts it with his left hand and it comes down on your leg. You scream in pain. He reaches and wraps an arm around your neck. You claw at his arms, cutting off your air. It takes no time at all for you to faint..._

 

Morning comes too early, wearing Clarice’s smiling face. You flail and fall over the side of the bed with a thump.

“That was weird,” she says as she looks down at you. She grabs your arm and hauls you upright. “Up! We needed to get going hours ago.”

You sit heavily on your bed and groan.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Your knees are a bit wobbly right now.

“Yeah, just give me a minute,” you say.

“Alright. Try to be out in 15, ok? My friend wants to meet you.” She then bounces out of the room and closes the door.

You hold your hand over your chest, feeling the frantic beating of your heart. Clarice had unknowingly woken you up from a nightmare. Every time you close your eyes, you can still see...

You get up stiffly and grab your toiletries to freshen up.

 

Clarice’s friend, Amari Johnsons, is pleasant enough to be with. She has dark, curly hair that she parts to the side with a couple of huge hair clips. She’s wearing a t-shirt under her yellow sundress. Clarice, on the other hand, is wearing a tube top and a pair of hammer pants. Oh, and Clarice forgot to tell you Amari’s _her_ girlfriend. You realize that when you’re five minutes into the hike and all they’ve done is cuddle each other and hold hands. It’s like you’re not even there.

Whatever. At least there’s chicken in it for you. And apple pie, if you stumble upon the orchard. You look at the two girls. Amari’s giggling at something Clarice said, her fingers dipping close to Clarice’s waistband. They seem more likely to stumble into each other.

The sun shines hot and gritty down your neck. You’re wearing baggy blue pants and a light collared shirt, and you think your feet are sweating in your shoes. You set up a temporary camp under the shade and lay down the picnic blanket.

“Thank you so much for setting up,” Amari tells you when she sits down.

“You’re welcome,” you reply. Amari elbows Clarice as she settles in and starts handing plates to everyone.

“What? He just put down a blanket,” Clarice says. You swipe the first sandwich out of the basket.

“Don’t be rude! He’s been a sweet kid all day,” Amari says. You pout. You don’t appreciate being called a kid but something stirs in you at being called a _sweet kid_. Weird. You shrug the thought away.

“Alright, here. You get another sandwich,” Clarice says and she places a second sandwich on your plate.

You smile sweetly at her. “Thank you.”

Clarice looks at you with disgust. “Ew, wipe that look off your face.”

She and Amari take their portions before closing the basket.

“It’s so quiet here,” Amari observes. She keeps staring at the trees and the blue sky.

“Isn’t it? It’s why I love working here,” Clarice says. “My boss is great. My working hours are great. The perks are great. You can’t go wrong here.”

Amari giggles at her. “It sure sounds like you're having fun.”

“Not as much fun as we could have in Metropolis,” Clarice answers.

“What are you gonna do in Metropolis?” you ask as you get started on your second sandwich.

Clarice turns to you. “Amari here wants to be a botanist.”

“It’s a dream for now,” Amari says, busying herself with food.

“She has relatives in Metropolis. I keep telling her to move but she’s so stubborn,” Clarice argues, forgetting her sandwich for a second to pull a lock of Amari’s hair away from her face.

“I like it here. Besides, Wayne Foundation is paying for my tuition, and one of their clauses is a Gotham residency,” Amari explains.

“Yeah. So much for pulling yourself out of poverty,” you say. Then you bite your lip. Both Amari and Clarice are glaring at you. “Uh, sorry.”

You take a big bite out of your sandwich, hoping that will stop you from spouting nonsense. You’ve forgotten how offended Gothamites can be when an out-of-towner gets mouthy. Right now, you’re the out-of-towner who can’t shut up. So, sandwich.

“Shows what you know. Gotham takes care of hers and herself,” Clarice says. She holds her chin up so high you can see inside her nose. Amari looks besotted with her.

The sound of footsteps and crunching leaves catch your attention. You turn around with half the sandwich sticking out of your mouth.

Bruce waves his hand as he jogs to your group. He trips on air and nearly falls down on his face. He rights himself and stops next to you, bending over and clutching his sides.

“Oh, good. I found you,” he gasps.

“What happened?” you say, unknowingly using Robin’s voice. You startle yourself and you make an effort to speak in a higher voice. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to be—?”

“They cancelled. I figured I can hang out here instead,” Bruce cuts in. You look at him, up and down. He’s wearing a semi-formal blazer, dress pants and leather shoes. He’s even wearing jewelry.

Bruce rolls his blazer to his elbows and sits determinedly between you and Clarice. Amari’s eyes are huge and trained on Bruce. Clarice’s are too.

“Is that chicken?” Bruce asks Amari, who nods. Clarice opens the basket for Bruce and hands him a sandwich.

“Thank you,” Bruce says. You side-eye him so hard. Then you lift your brow at him when he takes small bites of his sandwich.

Having Bruce out here is a mistake. Amari and Clarice keep you between them at all times. They stop cuddling and talking all together. You’re the one making conversation now, with Bruce hanging on outside your group. There’s that one wild moment when Bruce falls through a small thicket. When he doesn’t show up again, you follow him.

He’s standing next to a huge tree. Its branches spread outwards like a roof and leaden with clumps of gold and red apples. There are about six other trees like this one, arranged in a crooked line. You come running into the clearing.

“Oh, good. You’re here. I thought I lost you guys,” Bruce says when you reach him. You look behind you at Amari and Clarice who are making slow progress walking down the steep incline.

You glare at Bruce for a second before calling out to the women. “We’re gonna go pick that tree over there,” you yell, pointing at the end of the row.

“Sure!” you hear Clarice yell back as she waves at you from the distance. You waste no time grabbing Bruce’s wrist and leading him to the other side of the orchard. There’s a basket or two next to every tree. You both stop by the last tree.

“Mrs. Kettleburn wants to make apple pie,” you tell Bruce. You cross your arms at him. Your breathing’s alright now, but you can still feel your heart pulsing hard in your chest. Trust the future Batman to stage a vanishing act for the sake of showing you all where the orchard is.

“Yes,” Bruce says worryingly. “Are you alright, Jay?”

“Right as rain,” you reply. You grab one of the baskets and shove it in Bruce’s arms. “I’m gonna climb. You keep the basket. Try to catch what I throw down, okay?”

“Sure,” he says. You start climbing. It isn’t that hard. The branches are sturdy enough to hold you, and aside from the texture of the bark, it’s almost like scaling the sides of a building. You get your bum settled on the lowest branch and when you’re sure you won't fall, you look down at Bruce.

He sets the basket down and starts climbing the tree.

“Bruce!” you yell at him. You don’t know what to do. It’s not like you can kick him off the tree, or can you? “Get down! For the love of— _goddamnit_.”

You glare at him when he tries to push you farther down the branch.

“Budge over. C’mon Jay, my arms are getting tired,” he lies. He’s holding on to the branch above yours with both his hands. His arms look nicely corded from where you’re watching.

“This is my branch. Get down or find your own,” you say. He snorts at you.

You shake your head. You hate doing this but he gives you no choice. You turn in your seat, scoot backward and let him settle in front of you. Then you grab his forearms and yank him to the side.

It is a perfect maneuver. He doesn’t expect you to do this, and his legs let go of the branch. You swing upside down and drop him to his feet. He turns around and scowls at you. You cross your arms and smirk.

“That was uncalled for,” he says darkly.

“Got you off my branch,” you taunt back.

“It’s my tree,” he whines. Then you hear a sharp snapping sound, and the branch you’re sitting on starts to go down.

You yelp and you try to grab for another branch or somersault out of the way. Bruce grabs your arms instead, his right on your left, and he yanks you bodily to the side. You clutch back, reaching for his arms but getting his shoulders instead. It’s another learned maneuver. Bruce’s arms are shorter. Bruce’s _everything_ is smaller. He wraps an arm around you and his hand around your head. You both fall to the ground on your sides, and a resounding _crack!_ fires off into the afternoon. Bruce’s collar smells like mint and oranges.

You poke your head out of his arms and survey the wreck. The branch you were sitting on hangs to the tree by a thread. It lays slanted and when the thread breaks, it bounces a bit to the side.

You stare at the branch then at Bruce. His eyes are narrowed at you. You smile apologetically.

“At least we got the picking done?” you ask. He’s still glaring at you when Clarice comes running.

“Is everyone okay? What happened?” she asks, her voice filled with worry. Amari follows at her heels. Bruce stands up and starts to brush debris from his clothes.

“The branch broke. We were under it,” he explains briefly. You stand up and brush leaves off your hair.

“It must’ve been a weak branch or something,” you say. Clarice looks at the both of you suspiciously.

“Looks like we won’t have to climb any trees,” Amari says. She gets closer to the branch and plucks an apple. You grin at her.

“No harm done,” you say and you amble over pluck a fruit. You twist, just like how Mrs. Kettleburn taught you, and the fruit breaks free. You wipe it on your shirt and take a huge bite. It’s juicy sweet with a hint of tart.

Clarice looks at you with a bit of disgust. Bruce shakes his head as he picks apples off the branch.

 

**SEPTEMBER ‘94**

Bruce is in the study, busy looking over old documents when you decide to raid the library for a computer. Here is a place that has improved over the years. The shelves are full of books and various knickknacks that Bruce had gotten rid off through the years. The left wing is still a storage room instead of the private room housing all of Bruce and Alfred’s prized first editions. The library is also about a hundred or so less of new print books.

There’s a computer settled in one corner of the room, behind the door and away from any window. You boot it up and wince at how hard the drives are spinning. Microsoft Windows is its boot up screen. Windows 3.1x. _Oh for the love of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus_.

It takes you a while to open the search engine, Altavista. You search the news, anything about the very first flash. It isn’t as productive as you thought. There are a thousand and one articles with the word Flash. If you can somehow narrow down the pool of results…

You spend an hour tweaking the search engine instead of making your own. The yield is much more precise than before, with the relevance of about 50%.

Your search turns up zilch, _nothing_ on the pages hailing from Keystone or Central City. However, you hit a trail when you search each state on the east coast. It’s luck.

There are photos and articles talking about the Flash, a hero clad in a red shirt with a yellow lightning motif and a metal helmet. The netizens are sort of _hush hush_ about it too, pictures sent over via email dated back from the 40’s. Wow. The latest pictorial evidence was from the 70’s. Alright, you can do this. You’ll find this Flash, or the new one, or your name isn’t Robin.

For now, you shutdown the computer and get ready for bed.

 

**OCTOBER ‘94**

“You’re staying in Taiwan how long?” you ask Bruce. He scheduled a Wayne Foundation ambassadorship to Japan for earthquake relief efforts. Last week was spent with Alfred bustling around making sure Bruce was well packed for the trip. Mrs. Kettleburn took every spare second trying to guilt Bruce to staying. You’ve taken to waiting in the sidelines instead.

“A couple of months. I’ll be home by Christmas. Don’t have too much fun without me,” Bruce says.

 

That’s exactly what you do when he’s gone. You wear your darkest clothes and a power ranger toy mask for patrol. It’s a hike from the manor down to Central Gotham. Once you’re there, you stick to the shadows. A scream erupts from an alley ahead of you.

You flatten yourself against the wall. The victim is at gun point. The perp waves the gun at the victim, telling her to give up her money. She’s crying and tightens her grip on her purse. There’s a couple of garbage bins behind the perp. You sneak into the scene, grab the metal bin cover and whack the perp on the head. He falls down, only dazed. You kneel down and pinch a nerve in his neck. He passes out.

“Are you alright—... miss,” you say but the victim ran away at an opportune moment. Oh, well. You hope she makes it home safe. You tie the perp with zip ties and call in the attempted burglary. You get creative and pretend to have seen the incident through your apartment window. You leave the scene. You don’t care if the police didn’t pick this one up. There’s plenty of crime to stop in Park Row. You’re just getting started.

 

It’s been months since the last time you patrolled Gotham. You’ve never felt at home than you did out here. You have no grappler but that doesn’t stop you. You still know Park Row like the back of your hand, the alleys, catwalks and windows leading to balconies.

The people of Park Row don't rat you out, and you’re thankful for that. But when you go back to the manor and lay on your bed, you realize how the buildings from 1994 are remarkably similar to the ones in 2010. Almost like it didn’t change. That hurts you more. You worked the streets for three years under Bruce’s tutelage and more before that as part of the criminal element. Three years did not change Park Row and neither did the decade Bruce spent cleaning it up.

It’s not for the first time you doubted Batman and his legacy, but this is the first you’ve felt helpless against it.

 

You found him at last! It took about two months of tracking his activity. This time’s Flash was not what you were expecting. He’s wearing a blue swimmer’s cap and domino mask, a white top and blue matching pants and gloves. He’s also quite old. Older than Bruce, probably as old as Alfred.

He puts his fists on his hips as he looks you over. You’re wearing a poorman’s approximation of your Robin costume, hand sewn during the hours you should have been patrolling. It’s a red shirt, green shorts, gloves and boots. There’s also a yellow small cape.

You called him over from New York, and meet with him at the outskirts of Gotham. You explain Robin to him and your current dilemma. He listens to you patiently but doesn’t give you an answer. He takes the watch from you and runs off. He says he’ll keep in touch. You have no idea how but you know where to find him now. You can come home.

 

**NOVEMBER ‘94**

You woke up terribly early the next morning. If you’re honest, all your mornings are terribly early ever since you took up patrolling the streets. You started by going out during the weekends. Now you have a randomizer with an algorithm that makes your patrols unpredictable. You start going out almost every other night.

It’s taking a toll on your day activities, especially tutoring, but you answer all the homework dutifully and take naps whenever possible. Hopefully, it wouldn’t raise any flags for Alfred.

A few more weeks go by, and the Flash shows up. Not the blue and white one, but the _real_ Flash. He’s wearing a long sleeved red top and a metal helmet. He also blurs in place, and you can’t make out his facial features at all.

He isn’t there to help you. He thought you abducted his fellow speedster, _Quicksilver_. The man had been missing for a month now and had left an ominous letter. He didn’t give you permission to read it.

This Flash isn’t willing to help you out when you give him an abridged version of your time travelling incident. He went away with one of your last chances to go home.

 

**DECEMBER ‘94**

It’s ten days before Christmas Eve. Alfred said he was going out for an errand. He came back with Bruce. You rush out of the back door and run around to meet him by the entrance of the manor. Alfred is busy taking the luggage in.

“You’re back!” you exclaim. Then you hold Bruce’s face and plant a light peck on his lips. You jump back almost instantly. “Uh.”

“You kissed me,” Bruce says. He sounds incredulous.

“Uh,” you say. There’s nothing but white space in your mind. _Quick Robin, think!_

“It’s, uh, mistletoe! Merry Christmas,” you blurt out. Then you high tail it out of there before he figures out there’s no mistletoe anywhere.

You hole up in your room and spend all night thinking about the kiss.

You just kissed Bruce! Your run your hand through your hair and groan. You don’t know what went over you. You’re just happy he’s back and, okay, maybe you’ve noticed he’s good looking and all. You know that already because your Bruce is a DILF according to the Gotham Gazette and… _shit!_ It’s different looking at him and seeing this person who will grow up to be your _guardian_. Now you can’t help but see how hot your Bruce is, when that scar he got from Singapore matures and spreads along his side. You cover your face with your hands.

Alright. You sort of find fifteen year old Bruce hot. No biggie. You’re sixteen, and that’s normal. You’ll probably hump a chair if it moves. That’s what being a teenager is like, right? Hormones and growth pains and more hormones…

Yeah. You’re probably just confused, and a bit in lust with the fifteen year old version of your _technically_ dad…

Shit.

You flop down on the bed and then twist to curl up on one side.

“C’mon, Robin. Keep your facts straight,” you mutter to yourself. You take three deep breaths.

Fact: You kissed Bruce, regardless of lust or… whatever. You need to do damage control. That means you need to keep away from him for a bit, or start kissing other guys and gals.

You don’t know how you can face your Bruce when you go home.

 

The problem with finding gals and guys to kiss is that there _are_ no guys and gals around the manor. Operation Avoid Bruce At All Costs is going pretty well, on the other hand. You wonder if Bruce is avoiding you too. That thought makes you itch for some reason.

Not that you blame him. It took you three afternoons to figure out that you like guys too, and that’s after you planted a big one on Bruce. You had two browsers running a search on pictures of beautiful women and men on the internet and kept flipping from one browser to the other. You’re pretty sure now. Bethany’s going to be so disappointed when you come back to the future.

Still, Clarice is noticing all the _tension_.

“Hey, movie boy. Did something happen to Brucie? I’ve never seen him so quiet,” she says when she got you tucked in the deep part of the living room couch. It’s the leather couch and has been known to eat people alive. At least that was your impression when you first moved in. Good to know it has always been a carnivore all its life.

“Why are you blaming me?” you squawk, trying to claw your way out.

“I’m not. I figured I’d crack you first, considering we’re friends and you’re not my employer. So spill. Did you two fight?” Clarice asks. She’s waiting you out, and you can feel you’re losing already.

“Nothing like that,” you say. You cease struggling and let your body sink. “It’s… it’s nothin’.”

“Dun look like nothin’,” she grumbles. She grabs your arms and pulls you out. You make yourself limp like a rag doll. She manages to pull you out anyway. “You know you can talk to me if you need someone, okay? Don’t carry the world on your shoulders.”

“Atlas,” you murmur at her. Then you sit up and offer her a genuine smile. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great,” she says. She claps her hands. “Right. What do you say we watch some TV? I’ll get the popcorn.”

You grin at her and lunge at the remote. You wave it at her. “I get the remote.”

 

It’s snowing heavily in Gotham. The manor is covered with a blanket of white. You mourn how you can’t patrol Park Row but there are good things happening too. Bruce has been back from Taiwan for five days. Even though you’ve been hiding from him recently, you still find comfort knowing he’s safe and close by. 

There’s a blonde boy hanging out in the welcome hall. He’s lean and tall, dressed in comfortable pants and a cardigan on top of a collared shirt. He’s got gel in his hair and he surveys the place like bird of prey.

“Hello,” you call down from the top of the stairs.

He turns to you and says in his haughtiest voice, “Where’s Bruce?”

“He’s still in Taiwan. Do you want me to take a message?” you lie. You flip down from the staircase to land in front of _Mr. Snotty_. You’re disappointed when he doesn’t back away.

“He was seen at Wayne Foundation yesterday. Where is he?” he asks you again. You smile at him and lie some more.

“They must’ve made a mistake. Bruce is still in Taiwan. Do you want to leave a message, or do I have to escort you out of the property?” you say, making a show of flexing your arms. Not that it helps much. You’re wearing a thick sweater.

“I’m his childhood friend!” the boy says. He seems angrier at you thinking he’s a stranger, which he is. You have no regrets making him miserable.

“Yep. So’s Elmo and Big Bird,” you say as you cross your arms in front of you. Mr. Snotty stands taller and looks down his nose at you.

“I _will not_ go till I’ve seen him,” he says. When he moves towards the stairs, you slide to block him.

“Get out of my way, please,” he says through his teeth.

“I don’t think so, Romeo,” you snort.

“Jay, stand down,” Bruce’s voice calls out. He sounds amused. You relax instantly and cease pissing off Blondie. Bruce pokes his head out at the top of the grand.

“Tommy!” Bruce says. Then he’s taking the stairs two steps at a time. _Blonde and prissy_ is all smiles now that Bruce is here. Bruce rushes to the boy and hugs him. Then he holds the boy at arm’s length, as if making sure his friend is real.

“I’ve missed you! How was Switzerland? It’s ages since I’ve been there!” Bruce says. Tommy blushes proud when he says he’s been alright.

“Switzerland is beautiful in the summer,” he simpers, “but father’s business brings us back to Gotham.”

“Once a Gothamite,” Bruce says proudly. Tommy floats when Bruce smiles at him.

You frown. It’s fucking disgusting if you didn’t do the exact same thing whenever Bruce looks at you.

“Tommy, this is Jay, my guest,” Bruce says, his hand sweeping towards you.

“We’ve met,” Tommy says in that haughty voice again. Bruce laughs.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get along in no time,” he says. You and Tommy glare at each other. You trust Bruce with your life, but this Tommy pushes all of your bad boy buttons. You both turn to stare at Bruce. He startles at the look on your faces.

“Here, give me your coat, Tommy,” Bruce says and he disappears someplace with it. You squint at Blondie.

You suppose you can try being friendly. For Bruce.

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” you say, offering your hand to Tommy. He hesitates before reaching with his own.

“Me too. I should’ve explained myself better,” he says. His grip is firm and he gives you one pump before letting go. You stand awkwardly for half a minute before Bruce appears sans coat. He wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders as he leads him up the stairs.

“C’mon, Tommy. We can talk in my sitting,” Bruce says.

You click your tongue when they’re gone and slink off to the kitchen. Alfred makes you help frost a batch of sugar cookies, which is fun because he lets you lick the rest of the icing. So when Bruce comes in looking for Alfred, you’re licking a sticky wooden spoon.

You both blush and you put the spoon down hastily.

“Bruce? Is something the matter?” Alfred asks from his position by the sink.

“Uh,” Bruce says. He’s still looking at the spoon. “Tommy needs a ride back home. I was wondering if you can do that,” he says before turning around quick and leaving.

Alfred gives you a puzzled look. You shrug and pick the spoon up again. No use wasting sugary goodness.

 

The Wayne Foundation Christmas Gala is in full swing, despite it being on Christmas Eve. You’ve never seen so many bouncy, shiny dresses in your life. You’re in a fancy suit yourself, courtesy of Gianni, which scores you good with Bruce’s _high society_ _friends_. They’re mostly models and heirs of Bruce’s business partners. It’s freaking you out, how the rich in Gotham is gathered here to throw their children at Bruce.

You’re enjoying the celebration as a guest this time. Alfred is busy handing people their drinks. Now that you think about it, if you were part of the staff, you can drink the alcohol you’re serving on the sly. You narrow your eyes at Alfred, who ignores you and keeps the colorful drinks from your grasp. You huff and head to the desserts table.

“Don’t be angry at Alfred. It was my idea,” Bruce tells you when he corners you between the chocolate fudge and the fruit bowl. He sneaks up on you, employing that quiet movement he mastered in Japan. You pop a chocolate cube in your mouth. He laughs at you and grabs your arm.

“C’mon, I need to show you off to my friends,” he says, tugging you to the section of the hall with the fluffiest couches.

“What for?” you ask. You haven’t seen hide or tail of Bruce since he introduced you to Tommy. They’ve been keeping each other company recently, holing up in Bruce’s sitting room or going out to arrange stuff for the Gala. It’s true you did your share of avoiding him, but you were sure he wasn’t going to talk to you for a while yet. Alfred had been giving you the stink eye every time he had to tell you something Bruce wanted to say.

Bruce just hums in answer. You have no idea what he’s planning for you now.

The corner he drags you off to have an assortment of couches and rugs. There’s one kid sprawled all over one of the couches. The girls are mostly sitting down or draped all over each other. Most of the boys are over the opposite couch, doing the same. There’s a big chair off to the side, its back against the rest of the room. It’s suspiciously empty.

Tommy is with them, looking very relaxed and at peace. You suspect he’s had some of that Christmas cheer Alfred’s been giving out.

“Everyone, meet Jay. Jay, meet everyone,” Bruce says, gesturing with the hand holding a glorified glass of sparkling water. The candy cane jumps for freedom, and the water sloshes close to his clothes. You right the glass with your hand.

“Hello, Jay!” everyone chants and they miss Bruce’s faux pas.

Bruce sits on the big chair and you follow him, sitting on the arm rest. You stay there for about a minute before some rude trust-fund baby pushes you off. You roll your eyes and sit on one of the vacated chairs.

You’re far enough to see how everyone flocks around Bruce. He gets a pat on the shoulder from one kid and an arm brace with the kid’s father. One mother comes by and kisses him on the cheek. One girl dares to paw at his chest, and you’re proud to see him catch her hand. You’re not as happy when he kisses it, but you think Bruce is avoiding embarrassing her. He lays her hand on the arm chair. Not a moment passes when another girl drapes herself over his lap.

Now, he laughs and holds her leg when it slips down the arm of the chair. _What gives?_

_“—what was Bruce thinking?—”_

You whip your head to the side. You glare at the two people some paces away from you. They turn around and keep murmuring.

_“—Wayne Foundation’s poster child—”_

_“—taking in a stray like that—”_

_“—should make him work for it, the privilege—”_

You stand up, but a hand falls on your shoulder. Tommy smiles down on you.

“What?” you snap at him.

“This is what they want to see. Don’t give them the satisfaction,” he says cryptically. He looks eerily like a Ken doll. His smile is frozen in place, not too big, not too small. You take a deep breath and brush his hand off.

You grin, showing off your teeth. “I don’t mind giving ‘em a show.”

Tommy looks tight around the eyes.

“What you do will reflect on Bruce. Is that what you want?” he asks. His lips barely moved. It’s like he never spoke at all.

“Go away. I can handle myself,” you say. He shrugs at you before moving to another circle of people.

You tug at the tie on your neck as you hurry to the bathroom. You’ve always hated Bruce’s big parties. It’s full of people you don’t care about, eating your food and drinking your wine. It’s hypocritical to you and it hurts to spend time around people who wipe their asses with Ben Franklins while Tiny Tim dies of tuberculosis with no turkey for Christmas—

You hide in one of the comfort rooms close to the hall. You lock the door and bang your head on the mirror. _You’re Tiny Tim_. You’re the charity case that will make Scrooge look good to the gods of Christmas. You splash your face with cold water.

You keep waiting for word from the Quicksilver. He’s your only hope of getting back to your time, to your Bruce, Alfred and the Batcave, to being Robin…

And possibly to more of these parties too.

Before you know it, you’re crying. Your chest is heaving, and it feels like something huge is stuck in your throat. You’re eyes are red. You’re stuck in fucking ’94 in a different identity, and what makes you cry is being surrounded by a bunch of weak ass rich babies.

Your Bruce knows you hate his _Brucie Wayne_ parties. There’s a reason you weren’t invited to more since your adoption debut. You were relieved you spent your sixteenth birthday in peace, but if _this_ is what you’re going to endure when you go back home—

There’s a knock at the door. You force yourself to swallow.

“It’s taken,” you call out, willing your voice to sound firm and not a bit wet.

“Jay, is everything alright?” Bruce’s voice calls to you from the other side. You grab a towel and wipe your face.

“Yeah,” you say. You hang the towel and open the door. “You can use it now. It’s free.”

“Did someone—” he starts but you don’t let him continue.

“You know, I don’t feel so hot. You won’t mind if I step out, will you?” you ask. Bruce’s brows curl in concern.

“No, no. Go,” he says, “But if there’s anything—”

You don’t wait for him to finish. You’re making your way through darkened halls to your room for some peace and quiet.

 

It’s Christmas when you wake up the next morning. Something smells nice in the kitchen, and you let your nose lead you to it. Mrs. Kettleburn is busy with lasagna, but she points you to yesterday’s turkey and ham. Clarice is spending Christmas with her family in Pennsylvania. The manor feels hollow without her. Alfred comes in from the servant’s door, a package under his arm. He shuts the door on the cold and leaves his boots by the wall. He throws the package at you. You catch it and read your name on the addressee.

“It’s from Clarice!” you say as you read her name on the sender’s address.

“Someone’s chipper this morning,” he says as he hangs his coat on the sack by the wall. You tear the packaging off to reveal—

“ _Sense and Sensibility_?” you ask, perplexed.

“A fantastic piece of literature by its own right,” Alfred says. He’s busy making coffee using an honest-to-god French coffee presser.

You flip the book over. You were sure you never read anything in front of Clarice so why—

You tilt the book sideways and _open_ it. The pages on the book were glued shut, and the middle part hollowed out to function as a treasure box of sorts. Inside are a folded letter and a number of Clarice’s fancy chocolates, ones wrapped in fancy plastic and foil. You read the letter.

_Merry Christmas, Jay! I hope this gets to you in time and I didn’t waste a couple of bills mailing this. Don’t eat everything in one go and brush your teeth before bed. Don’t want you getting sick and complaining to Mrs. K._

_See you soon,_

_Clarice_

You upend the contents of the box on the table and take the box to your room. It takes pride of place on your dresser.

It takes forever to get dressed for snow but once you’ve been deemed ready, Alfred leads you outside. Snow started falling again that morning, and the path needs to be cleared again. You have a blast making snow angels and snowmen before Alfred sets you to work.

You’re still brimming with energy when you go back in the kitchen. Bruce is there, nursing a cup of coffee, and Mrs. Kettleburn clicks her tongue at him. She uncrosses her arms and goes out to the hallway.

“What happened?” you ask as you sit on the kitchen table. Bruce looks like death run over.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and he takes a hearty gulp of coffee. You make a plate of ham and turkey for him before going after Mrs. Kettleburn. She’s not in the corridor anymore but you hear some noise in the welcome hall.

Alfred and Mrs. Kettleburn are hugging out there. Nothing handsy, just Alfred running his hand up and down her back. You creep back and leave the door open by a crack.

You can’t hear their voices, but you can read Alfred’s lips when he speaks.

“He’d always been an observant child. He’s bound to notice sooner or later,” he says. You frown. Mrs. Kettleburn says something again and Alfred answers.

“There can be no other like you in his life, you know that,” he answers. Then Mrs. Kettleburn says something a bit louder this time, something about needing someone like her around. Alfred takes her face in his hands.

“You can’t give up. We caught it early. We _will_ win this, alright?” he says before kissing her forehead.

You walk back into the kitchen to give them some privacy. Bruce is still there, holding the cup like it’s the saddest cup of coffee he’d ever had in his life. The scene makes you pause by the door.

You want to talk to him, make him understand. The days you spent avoiding him was torturous. You miss talking to him and hanging out at the gym. You miss the quips he gives and how quick his brain can _run_. You miss the way his hair moves when he laughs. You just plain _miss_ him.

You open your mouth… and close it. Bruce is unaware of your indecision, his gaze fixed solely on the cup. You look at your shoes and shuffle back out of the door. You’ve just turned and laid your hand on the door knob when Bruce calls your name. You look at him. He offers his cup to you.

“May I please get more coffee?” he asks, and he looks so pitiful you snatch the cup from his hands and fill it up by the coffee presser.

“You don’t have feet anymore, lazy bones?” you tease him when you set the cup on the table in front of him.

“Pains of the rich,” he says as he sips coffee.

“You mean the privilege? Also, why aren’t you eating? Mrs. K would skin you if you don’t eat something,” you scold him.

“I’m eating. Look,” he protests and he lifts a forkful of ham to his mouth.

Now is the perfect time for you to say something about _the kiss_ , but you’re stuck between making a joke of it or not. Will Bruce be offended, or will he joke with you? Do you want to treat your feelings as a joke?

You can also hightail it out of there, and the probability of you doing that is increasing by the _half-second_.

“I’m glad you’re here, Jay,” Bruce says. He’s not really focusing on you and is busy cutting his ham.

You gulp and reply, “Yeah. Me too.” You pat him at the shoulder and go out of the kitchen. You feel like burying your head under a rock.

 

You’re all in the living room now, sitting beside the Christmas tree. The angel on the top sings carols every five minutes. Alfred had taken pity on you and is letting you have all the spiked eggnog you want. You drink about two and nurse the last one sitting on the rug. You just finished a game of Clue, and Bruce is ridiculously atrocious at it. You don’t know if he’s faking or if his mind runs too fast for the game and crashes. You take your winnings, three chocolate bars, and stuff them in your pants pocket. Bruce had suggested monopoly earlier, but he’d been vetoed by both Alfred and Mrs. Kettleburn. You weren’t about to get into the middle of that and picked Uno cards off the shelf.

“Here, Jay. This one’s yours,” Mrs. Kettleburn says as she hands you a cylindrical package wrapped like a huge candy.

“Oh. Thanks,” you say accepting the package. Your fingers dig a bit into it. “You didn’t have to.”

“The least I could do for my young man,” she says with a wink. It’s been the joke in the manor ever since the first time you asked her to the movies. “Go on. Open it.”

You tear the wrapper to bits.

“Wow!” you say as you lift the knit sweater. It’s red with a yellow J in the middle. “Thank you, Mrs. K.”

She’s biting her cheek when smiles at you. “You’re welcome.”

Bruce twirls his finger, a command to flip the thing. It turns out; you were looking at the back of the sweater. The pattern in front is a roaring lion.

“It’s a striking likeness, isn’t it?” she comments.

You hug Mrs. Kettleburn and get your elbows caught putting the sweater on.

“And this,” Alfred says, brandishing a long, slim box, “is for _my_ young lad. Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

“Merry Christmas, Alfred,” Bruce replies as he stops picking at his cake and accepts Alfred’s gift. He has been separating the raisins from the bread with his fork for the past hour. You settle down, leaning on the lounge Bruce is sitting on. You lay your arm on the length of it and rest your head on your arm. Bruce opens the box and gasps as he lifts an old, expensive looking watch.

“I—Orion said he can’t repair it,” Bruce says. His eyes are glued to the watch. You wonder a bit before it hits you. _It’s his father’s watch_. You’ve never seen your Bruce without it. He told you it belonged to the late Thomas Wayne, or it would have but it’s only—

“—a replica,” Alfred says. “The original is safe in the vaults. I thought this should be a fitting replacement.”

Bruce looks at the watch intently before putting it back in the box. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“You’re welcome,” Alfred says.

You sip more eggnog.

 

**JANUARY ‘95**

You manage to avoid spending time unnecessarily with Bruce. There’s another party at the manor for New Years Eve. Bruce leaves you alone this time, and you’re free to circle the dessert table all you want. You don’t. Instead, you go out the balcony and freeze your cherries off. Alfred’s having the time of his life fixing the fireworks, and you wish you could join him.

The balcony doors squeal open, and Tommy strides out of it. You salute him and go back to watching Alfred.

“Being a wallflower again?” Tommy says as he slides next to you.

“What can I say? I look good on a wall,” you quip. It falls flat. The same girl during the Christmas Gala had plastered herself all over Bruce again tonight. It was a depressing scene.

“So, you and Bruce, how did you meet?” you ask him. You’ve been hanging out with Tommy recently. Bruce had taken to avoiding both of you, and Tommy doesn’t take the hint since he kept visiting almost every day. You’ve been playing board games with him. He’s a formidable strategist, maybe better than Bruce, and you’re in awe. You definitely don’t want to be on the wrong end of his stick.

“My father knew his father. They went to school together, at Gotham Prep. It wasn’t an Academy yet,” he explains, and then he laughs. “They loved to say that all the time. They were both named Thomas, the only pair in their class, and a lifetime of friendship was born.”

Tommy fidgets in the cold, fussing with his pants. He puts his foot between the raised balusters. “Our parents had vacations together quite often and either left us with nannies or let us tag along and amuse ourselves. I can’t tell you exactly how we met. I was too young to remember.

“However,” he continues, “I can tell you he has no interest in Josephine.”

You lift a brow at him. “Why do you think I care about that?”

“You don’t? So I must have misread all the scowling and glaring you were doing whenever she lays on his lap,” Tommy elaborates, the asshole. You scowl at him.

“Like you weren’t,” you grouse. You turn and lean against the railing. The balcony doors have a glass window installation, and you watch the people mingle inside.

“ _The true and approximately true are apprehended by the same faculty_ ,” Tommy recites, and you groan. He has this obsession with quotes from Aristotle, and you’ve heard enough from him in the meager time you spent together. “In your case, that’s your heart.”

You blow a raspberry at him.

“Josephine is a dear friend, but she is decidedly against the male persuasion,” he continues. “Bruce keeps her close because of that.”

“What—she’s _gay_?” you blurt out. Tommy nods. You look into the window and see Bruce holding Josephine’s shoulder. She isn’t looking at him, but rather at all the other girls gathered around them.

Tommy lets you process this as he pats his clothes free of dust. “I’d get out of here if I were you. Bruce usually sends his guests out to watch the fireworks.”

“I think I can handle myself,” you say.

He shrugs, an elegant ripple of movement along his shoulders and back, before going back in. You bite your bottom lip and check your watch. It’s ten minutes to New Year’s. You look down. There’s vine growing on the left side of the balcony. You look at the party, then at the vines.

You vault over, grabbing the grooves on the piece of architecture. _Just like rock climbing_ , you think. When there are only a couple of feet between you and the ground, you jump. There are people talking loudly above you. Tommy was telling the truth. You lean close to the wall and wait for the fireworks to start.

When most of the guests seemed to have wandered back into the ballroom, you start climbing. You realize quickly that going down is _a lot_ easier than climbing up. You can’t see anything and you slip at least twice on the same ledge. When you reach the top, you peek through the handrail. The coast is clear. You reach over the railing.

“I was wondering where you were,” a voice says, and you grab at a vine by mistake. You start falling backwards, but you arrest that motion by slapping your hand on the banister. You hear a ripping sound and narrow your eyes at Bruce. He’s holding your jacket so you won’t keel over and die via gravity. You vault over the railing and onto the balcony. The threads holding your right sleeve to your jacket are visible in the low light. You lift the sleeve up, but it’s a lost cause.

“You tore my jacket,” you complain.

The skin between Bruce’s brows scrunches up a bit. “I just saved your life.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “I wouldn’t need saving if you didn’t startle me.”

“You startled me first. Who climbs up a balcony?” Bruce asks.

“Romeo did,” you answer absently, picking at your sleeve. Your suit jacket is ruined. You don’t know what Gianni would do to you if he knew about this.

You look up, and Bruce is closer than you thought. You’re about a foot apart from each other. You take a step back.

“What?” you ask him. He lifts a brow at you.

“Nothing,” he says. A genius idea strikes you.

“Hey,” you say as Bruce turns away. “Since my suit’s ruined, can I skip the party?”

Bruce looks kind of disappointed, but he doesn’t stop you. You leave the ballroom with your jacket folded over your arm and about a hundred questions as to why Bruce looked crestfallen.

 

 _It’s bound to happen_ , you think to yourself. You’re sitting down opposite Bruce’s desk. Bruce throws your mask down in front of you.

“What’s this?” he never really asks but commands you to answer. His voice is full of quiet anger.

“A mask,” you counter.

“Don’t lie,” he says. His voice is cold and stiff. “What were you doing sneaking out at night?”

“I go night running. Heard it’s good for you,” you reply.

“Don’t test me, Jay,” he nearly snarls. He grabs the newspaper from the desk. He flips to the inner pages and slams it next to your mask.

**GOTHAM’S RED MASK: HERO OR FRAUD?**

They have an artist’s rendition of you wearing a power ranger mask, a knit cap and long sleeves, as well as an approximation of your height.

“At least I look nice,” you say. You bite your lip. You were careful but the artist rendition is too precise for comfort.

“They ID-ed you. An accurate one. There’s a bounty on your head,” Bruce says.

“Really? How much? I never had a bounty before,” you ask.

“Do you think this is a game?” he asks and now he’s snarling. He has his hands on flat on the desk and his eyes are level with yours. You try to meet him unblinking. “Have you thought how this would affect the people around you? This is a positive ID. All it takes is for someone like me to see you sneaking out of the manor.”

“You’re not like other people,” you say and then you backtrack. You don’t want to derail this conversation. “All they have is an ID on my clothes. They don’t know my real height, my weight, or my face—”

“It’s only a matter of time before they do,” Bruce says. Your temper gets the best of you, and you clench your fists on your sides.

“What do you want me to do Bruce?! People are suffering in Gotham! I can help, so I help!” you yell at him.

Bruce is happy to match your decibels. “Not if you’re endangering yourself! Leave this to the police!”

“I’m not endangering myself! I’m ready for this! I’m trained--!” you stop. You didn’t mean to say that. That was the biggest slip-up in history.

“What?” Bruce says, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear him.

You cough, trying to infuse your voice with the confidence you don’t have. “I’ve trained to take down petty crime,” you answer.

“No. You said _‘I’m trained.’_ Who trained you?” Bruce asks. He’s genuinely curious and still a lot angry.

“I taught myself,” you lie.

Bruce gritted his teeth. “Stop lying and tell me the truth.”

“Or what? You’ll kick me out of your house?” you taunt him.

You can see every muscle on Bruce’s face twitch, one after the other. His jaw clenches. He goes to where you are and grab the newspaper on the desk. He strides to the door and yanks it open.

“Alfred!” he bellows down the hall. You wipe your hand down your face.

“Bruce, what’s wrong? It’s late—” Alfred’s voice wafts in the room and Bruce lets him in.

“Did you know about this?” Bruce asks, waving the same newspaper at you.

“Leave him out of it. He doesn’t know,” you say. Alfred’s eyes flicker to you, then back to Bruce.

“Did you know Alfred?” Bruce asks him, his gaze so intent you don’t know how Alfred can keep standing.

“You’re not making much sense, boy. What happened?” Alfred asks back.

Bruce takes the newspaper and holds it out to Alfred. He looks at the caricature of you before running his eyes over your clothes. “My word…”

“It’s alright—” you reason out but Alfred shouts over your protests.

“The fuck it’s alright! You’re in the papers!” he yells.

“I know, I’ll fix it,” you promise.

“And how would you do that? Burn every newspaper in Gotham?” Alfred asks.

“I’ll just lie low for a while. Wait for the tabloid to forget,” you say.

“Bloody hell, you will! Get out of those. They need to be burned,” Alfred comments and then you’re busy being ushered to your bed and into pajamas.

“We’re not done talking about this, young man,” Alfred scolds you when he leaves your room with your clothes. He’s grounded you for a month.

You lie down on your bed. You’ve never seen your Alfred this mad before.

Both he and Bruce put you on house arrest. Clarice starts hanging out in your room a lot these days. “To keep you company,” she says, but you know Alfred must have put her up to it.

You feel like the ghost of the manor, the phantom haunting the walls. You can’t go out, not even to the grounds. You’ve taken to scowling at everyone for the first three days before you get your head out of your ass enough to apologize.

The first person you talk to is Clarice. She’s put up with you when you were your worst. She gives you a fist bump instead of the scolding you expected.

The next person you talk to is Mrs. Kettleburn. You know it was bad when she treats you like she did when you first came to the manor. She sat in her favorite chair in the kitchen and made you confess. You didn’t tell her anything about time travelling, but she still taps you on the head for getting yourself in trouble. She sets down warm soup for you that night so you know you’re forgiven.

It’s harder to apologize to Alfred. He knows who you are and what you do, and to expect you to not do what you’re meant to is impossible. But you did promise him you would keep from causing any time related catastrophes, so you suck it up and say sorry.

He’s still pissed off at you. He had to lie to Bruce countless times for you and he didn’t appreciate that. You refrain from making him any promises this time. You tell him there’s no way for you to go home. You tell him you’re choosing to stay and continue the mission here in the past. You hope he understood.

Bruce was hard to catch alone. He stopped avoiding Tommy, and they’re spending every minute huddled together in his dad’s study. It’s by some fortune you see him alone in the library, looking things up on the computer.

“You know I won’t apologize,” you say instead of greeting him. You see the tension gripping his shoulders when he hears you. “Not for the lives I’ve saved and people I’ve helped. This is who I am and who I’m meant to be. I can’t imagine living another life. I wish you can understand that.”

“You chose to be a… soldier for justice,” Bruce says. His voice is low gravel. He hadn’t turned around to face you.

“Because Gotham needs her knights,” you reply.

“Why do you care? You’re not from Gotham,” Bruce asks. He turns and pierces you with his unblinking gaze. “Is there something else you need to tell me?”

You pause. There’s so many thing you want to tell him, things about the future and the legend of the Bat. You clench your jaw.

“Not really. Goodnight,” you lie before going out the door.

 

**FEBRUARY ‘95**

Alfred forgives you once the first week of February rolled in with thick snow. You helped him shovel for the whole day and when you come into the kitchen, you look a bit like a wet cat. Mrs. Kettleburn takes pity on you and feeds you soup. It’s still fascinating to see her glare Alfred into giving you two rolls of bread to go with your soup.

At night, he visits you in your room.

“You disregarded the rules. You broke your promise to me,” he started. You play with your fingers as you sit up on your bed. Alfred sighs and sits on your side.

“Violence is a tricky addiction to manage,” he says as he clenches and unclenches his fist. “I have seen many a soldier lose themselves in the heat of combat and seek the thrill of the battle field when they go home. I do not want that life for you, Jay. Nor do I want it for Bruce. If there’s anything I can do to change his mind and yours, I will do it. Alas, the die has been cast.”

He looks at you and finishes with, “You, my boy, are the proof of that.”

Then he leaves a brown, paper wrapped package on the edge of your bed. You open it with gusto when he leaves. Inside is a pair of dark, long sleeved shirt and pants. On the clothes is a letter:

 _I believe you need these if you ever want to continue with your_ mission _. I still do not approve and the moment you slip, I will take these back._

_Signed, A._

Behind the clothes is your red mask.

 

Bruce still hadn’t forgiven you when his coming-of-age debut comes up. He’d been in frenzy the whole week, making preparations for his sixteenth birthday. Tommy had been helping him, running all over Gotham to get the best of everything ready for the party. You watched the manic activity from afar.

They decided to hold the debut in New York this afternoon. It’s snowing heavily outside. You lean on the window and watch as Alfred loads Bruce’s luggage in the back of the Bentley. Bruce doesn’t even look back, just puts on his shades and climbs in the back seat. It reminds you of how he left for Sarajevo. You’re a little disappointed at his faith in you. You have the costume ready in a paper bag and you’re only waiting for night to fall.

 

You are an idiot. You’re currently held captive, unmasked, in an abandoned apartment floor. Your wrists and ankles are tied. They’ve been classy enough to prop you on a chair. This mafia wanna-be has been gunning for you since you took down his pimps months ago. Bruce was right, as always. He’s going to hold this over your head for forever.

His fist smacks your head. It hurts and you grunt. Someone yanks your head up by your hair.

“So this is the face of justice.”

The voice is crisp and devoid of any gothamite dialect. You crack your eyes open. There’s a man in front of you, wearing a 3-piece suit and a fedora. The cloud covering the moon moves and light floods in from the windows. You see that his hair is blond and his eyes are blue. You bit your cheek earlier so now your mouth is slippery with blood.

“Who do you work for?” the wanna-be asks. You give him a toothy grin. One of his flunkies gives your head a good shake, yanking on your hair. You grit your teeth and bear with it.

“The boss asked you a question!” the lackey says. You grunt and mumble. The mister with the fedora leans close. You spit on his face.

You delight in seeing his disbelief. Then anger settles in, and he punches your jaw. You spend a few seconds reorienting your sense of balance. A couple more lackeys move forward and throw you down to the floor. You see the wanna-be wipe his face with a handkerchief before the flunkies start kicking you.

It hurts, but you endure. This is Gotham, and this is how she repays her saviors. You hope they don’t kill you. One of the flunkies takes out a knife. You feel ice spread across your back as you watch the glint of the blade.

“The boss said no loose ends,” fugly says. You stare at his knife. Then he lets out a scream.

Quick as a fox, someone falls heavily on the man, landing on his face with a crack and kicking the knife close to you. The other two flunkies crowd the new comer. You curl up and slide your bound hands to your front. You grab the knife and hack at the rope around your feet.

The new comer kicks lackey number two on the face. Lackey three grabs their arms from behind. The new comer gives him a headbutt. Lackey three staggers away. You squeeze the knife between your feet to hack at the ropes binding your wrists. You’re free and when fugly wakes up, you pick any heavy object and lob it at his head. Your rescuer turns around to see fugly flop down. You stare at each other for a moment, you at the new comer’s masked face and him at the brick in your hands.

A gunshot rings through the apartment and you both jump. You look back at the fedora man. He’s pointing a smoking gun at you.

You and your rescuer book it. You try to go up a set of stairs but they yank you down and through a window. You climb some rusty escape ladder and jump to the next building. Your rescuer follows you. You run and jump on roofs before the gunshots following you taper off.

You keep going, climbing three more roofs before collapsing on your hands and knees. You’re gasping, and your jaw hurts from when the fedora dude punched you. You spit out the remaining blood in your mouth. You don’t care. _You’re alive_.

You turn over, sitting down and propping yourself up with your hands. You study your rescuer. They’re bent over, clutching their sides. They’re wearing long-sleeves and pants, as well as a ski mask. Their whole ensemble is black.

“That was wild!” you gasp out. Your rescuer rips the mask off their head and— _Oh_.

“ _That was dangerous!_ ” Bruce yells at you, and you flinch back. He advances towards you and yanks your collar. “You could’ve died! What if I hadn’t been there?!”

His eyes are glittering with anger and worry.

“I’m okay. You were there, and we got out. Calm down,” you say, holding up your hands. He snarls and lets you go. He paces back and forth while you struggle to stand up. Your bruises hurt and your lip stings. You must have bust it.

“He’s a dangerous man, and he’s seen your face. We need—” he says but you cut him off by grabbing his face with both your hands and... kissing him.

You start by placing your mouth on his upper lip. Then you tilt your head to lick his lips open. You suck his lower lip in before placing your mouth on his fully. His tongue flicks the split on the side of your mouth and you wince.

“Ah,” you whine as your lips ache. Bruce narrows his eyes at you. “You came back for me.”

You don’t let go of his face and somehow, he’s holding you against him, both his hands on your hips. Bruce’s eye twitches, and you dive in for another kiss.

Your hand moves to his nape. Where your fingers tangle with his hair. Your other hand cradles his jaw. After a long while, you pull away. You wipe at a trail of spit on your mouth with your sleeve. Bruce is flushed, his lips swollen red and shiny with spit from kissing. Both of your chests heave, taking in much needed air. His face is pretty blank, which you’ve taken to mean he’s surprised. You bite your lip. At least he doesn’t think you’re a freak.

“We’re not done talking about this,” Bruce says after some time.

You grin at him and flinch at pulling the split on your mouth. “I hope not. You’re a really good kisser,” you tease. Bruce does that thing with his nose before letting you go.

“C’mon. Alfred’s waiting,” he says, before climbing down the side of the building. You follow suit.

 

The ride home is pleasant and slightly awkward. You two don’t talk on the way to the manor. Leslie greets you and corals you to a guest room repurposed as a medical room. She finds nothing terribly wrong with you, no broken bones this time. She clicks her tongue at your bruises and applies salve on your cuts. Mrs. Kettleburn comes in with hot tea. You thank her and drink the whole cup. Leslie gives you some painkillers and strict orders to stay in your bed for a few days.

They leave you alone after. You stare at the ceiling. You have no remorse over getting bruised up. You even got a kiss out of it _from Bruce,_ and he kissed you _back_. You can’t help the smile spreading on your face. You close your eyes and drift off to sleep.

 

The next morning, you glare balefully at Mrs. Kettleburn. She turns her nose at you despite bringing in your meal. She and Leslie double-teamed you last night, making you drink tea laced with some sleep-inducing drug. You’ve only just woken up.

“What if I’d been allergic?” you complain while stuffing your mouth with sausage.

“But you weren’t,” she replies as she fills your glass with orange juice.

“I’m never eating your food,” you say as you tear into the fried egg. The yolk runs down your fork, and you lick it.

She puts down the glass on the bedside table. You reach for it and drink. “Good luck with that,” she says.

You try to look for Bruce after, but he’s nowhere in the manor. Mrs. Kettleburn keeps you company that afternoon, and she makes you shell peas. Alfred visits you in the evening. You’re playing with a bouncy ball, throwing the thing up in the air and catching it. Alfred snatches it out of the air.

“What was that for?” you ask indignantly.

“Sit up,” Alfred says. You budge over, your hands going around your knees. He looks at you, then at the ball before flicking the thing listlessly on the bed.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing. Everything is right as rain, except for Bruce when you do find a way to go back to your time,” he says.

You freeze. You haven’t given that much thought over it. You’re still trying to find a way back home. You can’t stay here after all. You can’t fuck up the timeline more than you already had.

Alfred runs his hand through his hair.

“I know it wasn’t your intention, but please think about your actions and the predicament you’re in,” he says.

You gulp. “I won’t stop,” you declare.

Alfred sighs.

“Because I don’t think I can,” you mumble.

“Yes, we are terribly past the point of no return,” Alfred says, injecting his voice with some humor. “But I must insist you move with more caution. Can you promise me that?”

You take in a deep breath and blow it all out. “I’ll try.”

Alfred pats your shoulder. “There’s a good lad. At least one of my boys listens to me.”

 

Tommy comes by the following afternoon, his eyes red rimmed with deep marks of the sleepless. He doesn’t greet you and rushes straight to Bruce’s rooms. He leaves right before dinner, still not meeting your eyes. You come by Bruce’s rooms, hoping for an explanation, but he isn’t there. He’s not anywhere in the manor, actually, and you give up. He might be hiding in the Batcave. There are new scuff marks on the floor next to the grandfather clock in his dad’s study.

When you do catch him, it’s when he’s doing some tax filing for Wayne Foundation.

“ _No_.”

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

You’ve been having this argument with Bruce for a while now. He’s pacing behind the desk in his father’s study, tax forms left unfilled and scattered on his dad’s desk. You make yourself comfortable on the arm of a cushioned chair.

“You sound like a fucking robot when you talk like that,” you growl, scuffing your shoe on the mahogany.

Bruce glares at you but doesn’t bite the bait. “You need to stay in the manor or move out of Gotham. Either way, you’re not going out there. If you lie low for a while, Elias won't find you.”

 _Elias_ is the name of the wanna-be Don in a fedora who wanted to turn you into target practice. He had been making a bid for Crime Alley for the past five years. He’s got his fingers dipped in a lot of small pies. He’s still a minor player but his influence is big enough for Bruce to be concerned.

“My sources tell me he’ll be in town for another two weeks. You need to stay in the manor till we’re sure he’s gone,” Bruce commands you.

You scowl at him. “I don’t like this.”

“It’s the safest option,” he answers.

“Okay,” you snap, running a hand through your hair. “I’ll fucking stay, but only for two weeks. Then I’m going out there no matter what.”

Bruce crosses his arms on his chest. You hold his gaze. He folds, letting out an irritated huff before leaning against the side of the desk. He pinches the bridge of his nose while he talks to you. “I prefer you quit this thing altogether. Is this what you were doing with your dad?”

“Huh?” you say. Then you remember he wasn’t talking about your real dad but the imaginary one you’re supposed to have in New York. You make up another lie. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. It’s… it’s a family thing.”

“With the mask and the acrobatics?”

“Yeah.”

“Vigilantism is illegal,” Bruce says and he looks you straight in the eye for that. You can’t help feeling indignant.

“A lot of things are illegal in Gotham. What did you call it, bridging the gap between the suffering and the government?” you taunt.

“Don’t twist my words like that!” Bruce shouts, and now he’s angry. You can feel calmness settle in your core and you speak with a composed tone.

“You know I’m right. You’ve seen what I’ve seen. I bet you’re pissed ‘cause I got out there before you did,” you explain.

“You’re just sixteen,” Bruce sighs. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Years. A couple and more,” you brag. You meant to make Bruce feel better about this, make him think you’re a professional or something, except it isn’t working. He’s looking more and more like he’s going to call the cops. “It’s not just me! I have a, uh, an older brother of sorts. He came first.”

“What happened to him?” Bruce asks. He moves from the desk to the chair behind.

“He graduated. Moved to a different town and set up shop,” you say. It’s not really a lie. Dick moved to Blüdhaven and started going out as Nightwing. It’s the reason you got picked up as Robin in the first place.

“Where?” he asks. He reaches for the telephone. You jump out of the chair and reach over the desk to grab his wrist.

“Why’d you care?” you say, delaying him.

“You’ll be safer with him for now,” Bruce explains. He’s still reaching for the phone.

“I meant what I said. I’m not leaving Gotham,” you insist. Bruce does the rolling hand technique thing to dislodge your grip on his wrist.

“It's not just your life that's in danger, Jay,” Bruce starts scolding you, again. “What would you do if Elias caught you with Cecilia, or Alfred? You got captured once—”

“Just the once! I was distracted. It won't happen again,” you cut in. You got caught when you tried to escape through what you thought was an abandoned apartment. There were kids in that room, and you had to leap to a different fire escape to lead the crooks away. The goons caught you mid-jump.

“Of course,” Bruce says with finality. “We won't let it.”

You stare each other down again for a couple of seconds. “You’re not sending me away,” you growl.

Bruce groans. He puts his face in his hands and sprawls on his chair. You wait to see if he’s going to say something else. When he stays silent, you go around the desk and stand between Bruce and the phone. You use your hands to prop your back against the desk.

You give him a lazy smirk. “We can keep fighting about this, or you can kiss me.”

Bruce’s fingers slip down to reveal one blue eye. “Will that make you do what I say?” he asks.

“No, but at least we’ll both feel good,” you shrug at him.

Bruce lets out a tiny, huffing laugh and takes his hands from his face. He lets them rest on the arms of the chair. “Good...?” he taunts.

You move away from the desk and lean forward, placing your hands on the chair, an inch from his. “Why, you want more?” you tease him back.

Bruce leans closer and his eyes look electric. He doesn’t blink. “What if I say yes?” he whispers.

You close your eyes as you shiver. You can feel your face burning, along with the back of your neck. When you open your eyes, Bruce is laughing at you. His hand is on his lips and he’s trying not to make too much noise. He’s making these small wheezing sounds you find really irritating. Endearing, too, and _god_ , you’re such a _loser_.

You duck your head in embarrassment. “I bet you can’t either,” you whine at him. He brushes his fingers against the back of your hand, and you look up.

“No. I can’t. I won’t. We’re too young, and I want to know more about you,” he tells you with a straight face. You gulp.

“Oh?” you say.

“I want you to stay here for as long as you can and I want to learn everything about you,” he continues, doing that tickly thing with his fingers on the back of your hand. “Even if I rather you be safe somewhere else than here.”

You bite your lower lip. He got you there.

“There you go, ruining the mood with logic,” you grumble. You lift your hand and tangle your fingers with his.

“It needed to be said,” Bruce says. He’s staring at your joined hands like it’s some kind of fascinating evidence. You find that look adorable too.

“Shut up and kiss me,” you say. He pulls you down with his other hand on your nape.

 

You first felt it in December. A little quiver in your fingers, a pinch in your heart. A lot of things happened then, and you never thought about the weird things happening to you.

But now you’re worried.

You’re standing in front of the mirror in the shared bathroom. Your reflection is pale and your eyes are huge. You can see _through_ your hand.

You know you’ve been a bit lethargic as of late. You didn’t know you were _disappearing_.

You rush to your room and curl up in the corner between the bed and the wall. You push your head between your knees and take in deep wheezing breaths, each longer and deeper than the previous one. After a minute or so, your hand solidifies again.

You can feel the pounding of your heart.

 

**MARCH ‘95**

Tommy had been coming over every day for almost two weeks. He apologized for not acknowledging you last time.

“There was a lot on my mind,” he says. You don’t believe him but you let him keep his lies. He comes out clean a few days later.

“My father is thinking of moving the family to Sydney,” he explains during one of your afternoon chess matches. You’re beating him horribly.

“It’s a good business venture, but I’ll miss Gotham,” he says and you see him looking at the picture of Bruce in the fireplace.

He looked sad and pallid when Bruce rides with him to the airport.

 

Bruce is avoiding Alfred this time, and it’s making you jumpy. You keep your promise and wait closer to three weeks before going back out there. You’re extra careful on patrol, keeping out of Elias’ known territory.

You know there’s a shadow following your every move. It might be Bruce being a creeper, as usual.

You put a cap on the time you patrol, about two to four hours a night and never between the same hours if you can help it. It’s frustrating that you can’t go out more, but that’s the disadvantage of not having a full-grown man in a bat costume behind you and the legacy of the red, green and yellow. You can’t afford to be reckless.

Apparently, so is Bruce. He’s quite intent on trailing you and doesn’t notice when you circle the same block twice. You disappear on the third try and sneak up on him. He jumps, and you laugh.

“That was hilarious,” you tell him between your snickering. He looks annoyed at having been caught.

“Stop laughing. You’ll blow our cover,” he says impatiently. You sober up and lay an arm on his shoulders.

“You know, since you’re here, we could hit up Elm street. There’s a disgusting little den there I’ve been meaning to crack,” you say.

Bruce snorts. “No. I’m not helping you.”

“Your loss man,” you say, and you pat his chest before lunging for a fire escape. There’s a disagreeable guy on Pine Street that you need to make _agreeable_. You hear Bruce follow you.

 

**APRIL ‘95**

Alfred’s birthday comes and goes without a hitch. You made sure of that. It must be the most boring day for him, but it gives the old man an hour or so of extra break in the evening. He came in the manor with a brown square package that morning and you know he’d been itching to open it all day.

Inside the package is a first-print of Huckleberry Finn. You saw it by chance while walking around Park Row, October last year. You’ve been craving chilidogs after watching Pulp Fiction in the theater and made a wrong turn in one of the neighborhoods. There was a garage sale of some dude’s belongings. That happened a lot when someone couldn’t pay rent. The book had been sitting right there, and you knew it had been a first print at least, if not a first edition. The edges of the leaves are frayed. The landlady sold it for five dollars.

The next time you see the book, it’s nestled with Twain’s other works in the library, in the closed bookcase.

 

**MAY ‘95**

You run to the living room after you hear a loud squeal of a dying person. Mrs. Kettleburn is clutching a piece of card in her hand, her mouth in the other, and her eyes filled with tears. You rush over to her.

“Are you alright, Mrs. K? Are you hurt anywhere?” you ask her. She shakes her head and takes her hand off her mouth. She’s smiling.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” she says, her voice quivering. She did wake you up from a nap on the couch in one of the hallways, where the sun doesn’t shine on your face. Your hair must be sticking up all over the place. She lets out a joyful laugh and she plays with your cheeks. It’s reminiscent of how your Bruce’s old society girlfriends used to treat you.

“Sorry. It’s nothing dangerous. I was just so happy,” she says. She laughs heartily as she waves the card in the air. “My lord, are those girls silly, but I’m so happy for them.”

She hands you the postcard:

_Dear Cecilia,_

_I’m sorry to write that I won’t be returning to work at the Wayne Manor anymore. I’ve been accepted at the New Age University in Central City with a two-year ride through their culinary arts program. I am forever grateful for the experiences I gained working under your tutelage. Thank you so much!_

_Clarice Feston_

_Ps. Please don’t tell anyone where I am. Amari is with me. We already rented a house by the beach and we are not going back._

You turn it over. There’s a caricature titled Biotech Bay, tiny labs scattered around what seems like northern California. Alfred and Bruce bursts into the room and you wave the postcard at them.

“Good news,” you say, handing the card over to Bruce. His eyes skim the text before shrugging and handing the card to Alfred, who snorts.

“That brash friend of yours, I imagine,” Alfred says impetuously, and Mrs. Kettleburn swats his arm playfully.

Bruce hums. “It’s good to know it worked out for them.”

You blink at him. Bruce’s friend in Central City…

“Oliver Queen?” you ask Bruce when he leaves the room. He stops to stare at you.

“Yes. He’s a good friend and a capable investor,” he says. You keep walking with him, your hands behind your back.

Bruce walks into the ballroom-turned-gym. It’s a new installment in the house. Since the ceiling is higher here, Bruce can install more acrobatic equipment.

You follow him inside and turn to close the door. Immediately, you feel him behind you. He places his hand on the door. You lock it with a twist.

Bruce awkwardly wraps his hands around your waist. You laugh under your breath and press back against him. He grew almost as tall as you since his birthday. It’s like a he flipped a switch and suddenly he’s catching up on all the hard earned inches you grew into this past year. He huffs on your nape before hooking his chin on your shoulder.

“Alright, what brought this on? Don’t tell me you regret sending Clarice to school?” you tease him. You can feel him shake his head but he doesn’t say anything more. “You gotta use your words, man. I ain’t a mind reader.”

“It’s nothing. I just wanted…” he trails off.

“Want what?” you ask.

“To hold you,” Bruce murmurs in your ear. You yelp when he trails one of his hands up from your wrist to your elbow.

You turn around to rest your hands on his hips. He’s smirking at you, and you grab his hand when he tries to trail your elbow all the way to your shoulder.

“That tickles,” you huff out when you release Bruce’s hand. He rests it on your shoulders, and you close your eyes as he leans in for a kiss.

Making out with him is getting easier the more you do it. It’s also more pleasurable. Bruce managed to find out that you like being kissed in the neck, under your jaw, and the resulting hickey had been hell to hide in the warming weather.

You moan when you feel him nibble at the skin, making it bruise. His lips are puffy and red when he pulls away. You kiss him again.

When you both pull away, both your faces are flushed and your lips equally swollen. You wipe your mouth on the back of your sleeve before leaning your forehead against his shoulder. _God_ , you feel so sleepy.

Bruce cards his fingers through your hair, his nails scratching your scalp in just the right amount of pressure. You can feel yourself almost drifting off.

“It’s a good thing, ‘kay?” you try to placate him. “Clarice and Amari needed this. They’ll be great in California.”

Bruce stills for half a second before resuming petting you.

“I know that,” he says with hesitation, “and I did get a computer engineer from the deal.”

You snort at him and pull away. You can’t help the yawn escaping your lips. Bruce unlocks the door and keeps his hand on your shoulder the whole way to your room. He doesn’t come in and you fall asleep the moment you hit the mattress.

 

**JUNE ‘95**

“Jay, can you please stir the soup? Thank you,” Mrs. Kettleburn calls out to you. She’s busy putting apple stuffing inside peasants. There’s an important guest at the manor tonight, you’ve been told. You pull your sleeves over your hands and stuff them in your pants pocket.

“Sure thing, Mrs. K,” you say, making your way to the stove. You lift your hand and hold the ladle. You can still see through your hand. It’s been happening frequently. You nearly lost your head last week when your hand slipped through the fire escape ladder, and you’ve also been sleeping a lot these days. It’s only a matter of time before Bruce confronts you about it.

The ladle slips through your fingers and makes a splashing sound against the soup.

“Is everything alright, Jay? Give me a minute. This darn bird is so stubborn…”

You step away from the stove before running to the shared bathroom upstairs. You lock the door and take off your shirt and jacket. You stand in front of the mirror.

It’s like looking at a ghost. You can see right through you to the shower curtain behind you. You grit your teeth and pull on your clothes. You refuse to let this make you miserable.

Your only regret is leaving Bruce, _both_ of him, at a time when you’re supposed to stay. You’ve filled the floppy with your electronic journal. You write, in detail, everything that’s happened in the past, as well as the events leading to you being trapped here. It’s not much, but you hope it would help Bruce when his evil twin makes an appearance. You curl up at the foot of your bed, your head between your knees. You take in deep breaths, willing yourself to stay real, to stay _here_. You only go out of your room when you’re whole again.

 

**[[AN: upcoming child abuse. Skip to next AN.]]**

 

Tommy comes back from Australia looking as pale as ever, like he hasn’t seen the sun during his stay there. You rib him about it for a while and playfully elbow his side. He winces.

“It’s nothing,” he says but you’re shaking your head before he’s done speaking. You yank the hem of his collared shirt up.

“Like hell it is. What did you do in Sydney, fall off the bridge?” you ask him. His whole side is mottled with bruises of varying degrees of severity and age. He hastily covers himself.

“Thomas, we’re leaving,” a voice calls from behind you. Tommy changes in a second, his eyes duller and his whole expression as blank as possible.

“Yes, father,” he replies. The man is blonde but that’s where the similarities between them end. Tommy’s father is an average set man with gray eyes and light complexion. He has a face that seems kind. He’s dressed in a three piece suit and carries a cane, which he uses to push you away from his son.

“What have I told you about mingling with these types, boy?” he asks his son. Tommy doesn’t look his father in the eye, his gaze level with the man’s collar.

“Answer, son. I asked you a question,” he snaps and the steel hardness in his voice makes you want to put on your costume.

“ _Some animals are cunning and evil-disposed_ —”

You watch in stupor when the man slaps Tommy.

“Wrong again, boy. _All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind_. I swear your mother lain with a pig and had you,” he finishes and he turns to you.

“Who do you think you’re looking at, _rat_?” he smirks at you. You grin at him.

“A bigger rat,” you say. His eyes bulge out in anger and he raises his hand to slap you.

“Mr. Elliot, is something the matter?” Bruce asks as he comes striding into the corridor. The man puts on a warm smile for him and playfully pats your cheek. You snarl at him.

“Nothing, _Mr. Wayne_. I was just acquainting myself with your new toy. Good evening,” he says. He clasps his hand around Tommy’s nape as they leave.

Bruce puts his hand on your shoulder.

“How long did you know?” you ask him.

“For a while now,” he replies.

You snarl each word, “ _How long?_ ”

Bruce pauses. Then he holds your nape.

“Since my parent’s death,” he says at last.

You shrug his hand away and almost run to your room.

“Jay, don’t do anything rash,” he calls out. You don’t bother leaving your door closed and snatch your mask under the cabinet.

“What use would this be,” you lament, brandishing your mask under his nose when he comes in after you, “if I can’t even help a friend?”

“It’s not as easy as you think. Mr. Elliot isn’t like one of your side-alley crooks. He’s a proper villain and it takes a long time to bring them to justice,” Bruce reasons out.

You throw your mask on your bed. “They’re just men. All men bleed the same.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Have you thought about what would happen if you followed through with that? The repercussions for the victims will be severe.”

“Who says he’d be around to dish it out?”

You surprise yourself saying that. You feel like a volcano filled with molten hot lava. You want to cripple the motherfucker, but what you’re saying here is different. You want to kill this scum and wring his neck till his disgusting gray eyes bulge out.

Bruce holds your wrist. “Don’t do it. Don’t even think about it.”

Now this, _this_ is the Bruce you’ve always known. You shrug his hand away. An uncomfortable silence descends on the both of you.

“What do you suggest we do then?” you sigh and run your hand on your face.

“Information gathering. I only need a few key witnesses and his print,” Bruce confesses. You sit down on your bed.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask him. Bruce purses his lips.

 

**[[AN: End of Scene. Resume Reading.]]**

 

**JULY ‘95**

Tommy spends all of his afternoons with you and Bruce these days. His father is busy wrapping up loose ends your investigations put in the light of day. He never showed up his face in the manor again but you keep noticing Tommy’s bruises. They’re slowly multiplying.

Bruce is the brains of this operation. He gives you the places you need to bust and sometimes joins you if the site is too dangerous. Tonight, you’ll be meeting with your first solid lead. You can’t wait to put that piece of garbage behind bars.

 

**AUGUST ‘95**

All your hard work goes down the drain.

“We can’t do this now, Jay,” Bruce says.

“That son of a—that _bastard_ can’t keep doing what he does. There must be a way to stop him!” you yell, slamming your palms on the desk.

You’re in his study. The desk is cluttered by evidence upon evidence incriminating a certain Thomas Elliot Sr. of at least five offenses, each worth a lifetime in Penitentiary. You found enough proof and witnesses to put Elias in the slammer, but Bruce doesn’t want to expose him yet. You don’t know what he’s waiting for, and it’s making you antsy.

“Give me some time. I’ll get in touch with my lawyers and see what we can do,” Bruce says. He’s already dialing a series of numbers.

You clench your fists. “We have _no time_.”

Today is your birthday. You’re not sure what will happen to you.

“Have a little bit of patience. Tommy might get hurt if we rush. We can’t afford mistakes here,” Bruce replies. He places his hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright? You’re looking a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” you say between clenched teeth. You shrug his hand off you and stand. “Call your show monkeys. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

You move to the back of the room and out the door.

“Try not to set the forest on fire,” Bruce calls after you. You slam the door at him. You keep going till you’re out the metal gates and take a hike down Millionares’ Mile.

You missed huge chunks of time this past month, missing your patrol times even. Last week, Alfred scolded you about vanishing for a whole afternoon. He thought you were patrolling in daylight. In reality, your body faded away, and only your consciousness remained. It was a dreamlike experience, tailing Alfred as he searched for you around the manor. You’ve gasped awake in your bed after and felt chills run down your spine when you comprehend what happened was _real_.

Today is the day you were born. You’re gut is telling you this is the day you’ll disappear… for good.

You left your electronic journal in the library. It has a detailed record of your stay in the manor. It should be enough. You remember all the things you did in this house and the people you spent time with. You think about Bruce here, in the now, and how pissed he’ll be when you vanish. It’ll look like you ran away, and you think that’s alright. You don’t think you can take it if he sees you turn into air.

You think about Bruce in your present. You don’t know how much you fucked up the timeline. You don’t know what will happen in that future. You don’t know if he caught his evil twin. You hope so. You don’t want to be his downfall. Those videos he took can and will destroy Bruce.

You walk a bit more and pass by Tommy’s house. You turn into their driveway, thinking you should at least say goodbye. Tommy comes out of his house carrying a small knife.

It stops you in your tracks. He goes to the BMW, the Elliot family car, and pops the hood. When he looks around for witnesses, you hide behind a tree and peak over the side. Tommy’s bent over in the hood. He yanks a cord out and tucks it someplace in the engine before he closes the hood. The cord leaks some dark liquid under the car.

You’re caught letting him be or stopping him. His family’s going to a private resort in Florida, like they’ve usually done every summer, and they always take their family car. Tommy tampering with their vehicle looks like murder-suicide.

“Tommy!” you yell out as you run towards him. His eyes grow big and he yanks you by your shirt. You’re momentarily stunned, and he slams you against the wall on the side of his house.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses at you.

“What were you doing to that car?” you ask him back. Your hands are on his wrists, ready to take him down with that judo trick Bruce taught you.

“What I should have done years ago,” Tommy says, and he looks like a different person now. The light in his eyes scare you. You try to get out of his grip. He presses the knife to your jugular.

“Don’t you dare breathe a word about this to anybody,” he threatens, “or I’ll go over to Bruce’s and do the same to his car.”

You bend your knees and make yourself as heavy as possible. Tommy stumbles, and you grab his clothes. You throw him over and break his grip on your shirt. Then you jump away.

“Don’t bring him into this,” you growl.

“But you did it, Jay. The masked justice of Gotham,” he taunts. Your breath catches in your throat.

_“Thomas, get in here!”_

_“Tommy, darling, where are you?”_

Tommy’s distracted by his parents’ voices, and you book it. You run to the side, to the bushes and trees separating the different residences. Your heart is pounding in your chest and your lungs are burning for air. You don’t think Tommy is following you but you don’t stop running. You take a short cut through the forest.

You need to tell somebody! You don’t know how long Tommy’s been planning this. It could be for months. _Years_. He’s making a big mistake.

You twist your ankle stepping on a branch, and you fall down on your arms, bracing yourself. You try to stand up and run. You need to tell somebody—

The world spins around you.

 

**???**

_Somewhere in Gotham Medical, a woman gives birth to a boy. He came from her, but he is not hers. The boy is then held by another woman named Catherine Todd. She will be your mother and she swears she never saw a more handsome babe. Your father, ridden with guilt months after your conception, is smoking like a chimney outside the clinic. He’s talking to another expectant father, both of them anxious about their children._ You _are snoozing, content, in Catherine’s arms…_

 

You wake up. It’s dark outside. _How long did I pass out?_

You stand up on wobbly legs. Your head feels like cotton, and it’s _heavy_ , not unlike that time you got knocked out by scarecrow toxin. You pick a direction and go running. You go up the hill and burst out of the forest. The manor lights are up. _Shit_. You hope you weren’t too late. You go up the front steps and pound hard on the double doors. One of them opens, and a young boy is standing behind it. You frown.

“Who are you? Where’s Bruce? I need to—”

The kid looks at you like he’s seen a ghost. Then he grabs your neck. You falter. He’s quick and he has you on the floor in no time.

You’re trained too, and you grapple with him. You break his hold and wrap your arms around his neck. He does Bruce’s judo thing and uses your weight to flip you over. He barely manages it, and he breaks your hold on him. He twists your wrist and steps on your neck. You squawk. His barefoot is sweaty and cold.

“Tim, stand down!” a voice shouts.

You’re about to do the WWE leg wrap technique when you whip your head and see Bruce— _older_ Bruce comes striding into the welcome hall. The look on his face is so fierce it takes all the breath out of you. Alfred is right behind him, worry making the lines on his face pop out.

“Bruce—it can’t be—is he?” the boy, Tim, gasps out. Bruce taps Tim’s hand away from you, and he moves to the side. Bruce takes your face in his calloused hands. He holds you for a couple of seconds before engulfing you in his arms. Your breath is coming in short pants. The new boy ( _Tim, call him Tim_ ) is pale with shock, and Alfred is crying next to him.

The welcome hall is strange. There’s no wallpaper for one. Wood panels all around. A curious vase with no flowers is on the step closest to you. There’s also a huge urn next to… next to a photo of you.

 _Oh god_.

“I’m… home?” you ask tentatively.

“You’re home, Jason,” Bruce rumbles back at you.

 

**AUGUST ‘12**

You spent your first night back in a guest room. Alfred gives you his best herbal tea, and you dose off. You don’t try to figure out if there was something extra he put in your drink. You spend the next morning shelling peas for Alfred. In the afternoon, Bruce sends for you in his office. His dad’s office, you notice. He sits behind the mahogany desk, your floppy journal lying between you. You fidget in your chair.

“You, uh, you read all of it?” you ask.

Bruce shakes his head slowly. “I had Alfred finish it.”

“So you… you wanna talk about it?” you ask again, scratching the back of your head.

“There’s no need. I wish to talk about your experience with Hush. If you’re not comfortable with that—” Bruce says, and you cut him off.

“No. Yeah. Yeah, we can talk about that,” you stammer out.

And that’s how you get caught up with the future.

Tommy, or _Hush_ as he calls himself these days, pulled through with his plan and killed his parents in a car crash. Bruce turned over the evidence the both of you gathered sixteen years ago to the GCPD, and most of the Elliot Sr.’s assets got seized by the government. Tommy held a grudge against Bruce ever since.

When he saw Hush’s face in the security cams, Batman flew straight back to Gotham. However, he arrived far too late, and you were already gone. He apprehended Hush and got a confession that absolves his _Brucie Wayne_ identity.

It took Bruce six months to unearth a clue about your disappearance. Quicksilver relayed your circumstances to Bruce when he ran from the past to the future, albeit two months too late. It takes a couple of months more to unearth a new thread. This time, it’s your journal. Every time you write something new in the past, it gets transcribed to the future. The last entry is dated a day before your birthday, and Bruce has been waiting for you to show up.

“But you don’t remember anything?” you ask again, leaning over the mahogany desk. Bruce stands up and goes to look out the window.

“I’m sorry, Jay,” he says. He turns to look at you in the eye. “I don’t remember any of it.”

You’re about to call _bullshit_ when there’s a knock on the door. Alfred enters the room.

“I believe interrogation can resume after the young master has eaten,” Alfred exclaims with authority.

“Of course,” Bruce acquiesces. He sits back down on his chair, and Alfred leads you out of the study. Tim hesitantly slips into the room once you’re out and shuts the door behind him.

 

Batman summons Zatanna not five miles outside the city limits. He wasn’t planning on bring you along, but you insisted. You sneer at the red suit he lends you.

“I’d look like you but lamer and without the ears,” you complain but put it on anyway. It’s a pair of black tights and a red tunic, topped by a black cowl and cape sewn together. The material is lighter than you remember. It feels good to be in kevlar again.

You tear the cowl off and wear one of the prototype masks instead. You can see Tim’s eyes widen when he sees you. Batman is scowling, but when doesn’t he?

You pop out of the Batmobile so enthusiastically you look like you flew out of it. Batman is moving sedately out of the car and Tim— _Robin_ gets off his motorcycle. You scowl at Bruce.

“You wanted me wait for my license to drive that thing,” you whine. Bruce doesn’t answer you, heading straight for Zatanna. You move to stand behind him, on his left side and collide with Tim. _Robin_. You move further back putting Robin between you and Batman.

Zatanna is sitting on a showbox. She kept her hair long since you last saw her. She stands when you approach.

“Hello, Batman. Hi, Robin. Ooh, when did you get this one?” She asks, pointing a finger at you.

“There’s been an incident,” Batman starts, and you tune him out as he explains your time travelling adventure. Robin is already on his phone, tapping endless replies as discreetly as he can.

Zatanna is shocked to know you’re the second Robin, but when that passes, she gives Batman a firm nod.

“I better look at you then,” she decides and she takes your face between her hands. A chill washes over you when she looks into your eyes, and you lose yourself in hazel pools.

When you resurface, she’s smiling down at you. “Nothing seems to be wrong. I can see traces of natural magic, as it should be.”

You smile at her. “How’re tricks, Zee?”

“Great! I lost one of my rabbits in my hat, and he came back just now,” she says, and a white bunny peeks out from under her top hat.

“Magic is the root of all this?” Batman interjects, and Zatanna lets go of you.

“Not really, no. You mentioned a time travelling device. The root of all this is technology. This is just the world righting itself,” she says. Then she sighs. “Why didn’t Nightwing tell me about this? He’d been so sad when you died.”

She blinks at you then adds, “I mean, disappear. _When you disappeared_.”

“Oh, Zee, get yourself together,” she whispers to herself.

“How did he get back? What debt has to be paid?” Batman interrogates her.

“Not everything has a price. I mean, it’s not like swiping a card at the mall or something,” Zatanna explains. She lifts her arms to gesture at her surroundings. “Magic runs through the core of every world in every dimension. It is the life that flows inside every living being.”

She looks contemplative as she places her pointer finger on her bottom lip. “Hmm. Think of it as the world protecting itself. Like when someone throws a ball at you and you dodge so you won’t get hurt.

“Of course it’s much more intricate than that. Robin #2 was sent to the past with no way to go back. I assume the time difference was significant enough for the world to notice,” she continues as she paces back and forth. She stops in front of you and points her finger at your chest.

“There can only be one of you in a dimension, in a world, in a specific time and place. So the mystic powers-that-be decided it needed to spit you back to your own time. There’s no telling what would happen should you and your past self ever meet. Time itself might fold in and wink out of existence.

“This way, the world dodges a mean curveball and lives to tell the tale. It’ll take a while for the dust to settle, like memories for example,” she reveals, and you look at Bruce.

“But the _price_ ,” Batman presses on.

“There _is_ no price,” Zatanna insists. She lifts one hand up. “Death and destruction via the collapse of time.” Then she lifts her other hand and continues, “Or sending one bewildered kid back to his time, averting said disaster. It’s not a hard choice, Batman.”

A pause.

“But maybe try not to do it again? Strong magic like this can drain a land of its life. It’ll take almost forever to nurse it back to health,” she finishes.

 

You marvel at how the manor has changed while you were gone. The kitchen has new tiles installed. They’re baby blue, and it makes the dark wood pop out. Alfred is busy making Sheppard pie. You try to make him cook chilidogs, or just chili, but no dice. It’s all Sheppard’s pie and steak. It’s still yummy, but you’ve been back for the last few days and you really, really want a chilidog.

You watch Alfred load the pie in the oven.

“Do you still have a stick?” you ask him.

Alfred sighs. “It’s been eighteen years since I’ve last held a cigar between these fingers.” He then lifts his brow. “You may also find the old pottery to be stub-free.”

“Uh, what happened between… you know, _this_ and curses-like-a-sailor you?” you ask.

“I’ve grown older and wiser. It helped that Master Richard was of the impression that I was a role model and would take every chance to copy my vocabulary,” Alfred says.

You laugh.

“It was quite galling to hear vile words come out of the mouth of that child,” Alfred shudders.

“What happened to Mrs. K?” you question him.

Alfred pauses before turning to face you. “She died of lung cancer in 1997.”

You gape at him. After a beat you say, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Jason. She was comfortable and happy till the very end,” Alfred says with a slight smile on his face. “She was very proud of you.”

“She… talked about me?” you ask.

“Granted, I thought they were delusions at the time, but she remembered you often. She loved you greatly,” Alfred continues.

You bend your head down and murmur, “I wish I was there for her.”

“She would wish for you to get home safely,” Alfred insists.

“You’ve all moved on Alfie,” you reason, gesturing around you. “I had a funeral, and Bruce got a new Robin.”

Alfred moves closer to you. “Master Jason—”

“Don’t call me that!” you yell at him. Then you flinch and gasp. “Sorry. I-I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright, Jason. It’s going to take time to get you settled in again,” Alfred says. He moves closer to lays his arm on your shoulder. “Have patience my lad.”

 

**SEPTEMBER ‘12**

“Why doesn’t Tim live here?” you ask, cornering Bruce one day in the Batcave. He’s been avoiding you like the plague, and you’ve had enough of being ignored.

He’s bench-pressing some weights, and the sound the equipment makes echoes through cave.

“He doesn’t need to. Tim lives next door,” he replies. You try not to get distracted by his straining, corded muscles. His leg muscles are pulling against his shorts.

“So he still has his parents? I thought you only adopted orphans,” you press on.

“I have no intention of adopting Tim. Robin is my assistant. Timothy Drake is unconnected to Bruce Wayne,” he says.

“And no one would notice a kid sneaking in the Wayne Manor every weekend,” you snort. “That won’t hold well in court.”

Bruce carefully lays the weights on the stands and sits up on the bench. He grabs his towel on the side and wipes his face. “I can’t adopt Tim. His parents are still alive.”

“Then fire him,” you say. “I’m here now. I’m Robin. Let him go back to his old life.”

“It’s not that easy Jay. You were gone for a year. You’re not ready,” he says, standing up. You get in his way.

“I’ve been here for a _stinkin’_ month Bruce! What d’you think I do? Sit around and watch TV?” you yell, and before you know it, you’re grabbing his tank top, pulling the fabric taught because he refuses to be moved by you. “D’you wanna fuckin’ go?”

“Jay—”

“C’mon, you need an audition piece, don’t cha?” you taunt as you lick your lips.

“Jason!” Bruce raises his voice and you blink. Your chest is heaving. He’s looking at you like how Batman looks at a perp. He has your wrists in a hold.

“I-I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry,” you apologize, and Bruce lets go.

“We’ll talk to Leslie about your withdrawal symptoms later. In the meantime, I want you to attend therapy with J’onn,” he says. He’s going in the direction of the medical room.

“Therapy with who?” you ask as you follow behind him.

“The Martian Manhunter.”

You stop in your tracks. The Martian Manhunter is known for his proficiency at Telepathy. You’ve seen him in action when he _pushed_ at someone’s mind. “You want him to go into my head and—and _fix_ me?”

Bruce whirls around, a light frown marring his face. “That’s not what—”

“That’s fucked up!” you screech at him.

“Jason, it’s not—”

“No! I refuse! Goddamnit, Bruce!”

“Jay,” he starts but he just looks at you for a beat. Then he sighs. “Alright. How about Dinah?”

You gulp. “Black Canary?”

“She’s a seasoned veteran and has experience with PTSD, among other things,” he says. He goes back to rummaging through the drawers. He comes up with a clear patch. He crooks his finger at you, and you step into the room.

“… Fine. I’ll talk to her, but no martians,” you grouse. He lifts your left sleeve and administers the patch to the skin under it.

“J’onn has a PhD in psychology,” he reasons as he tugs your sleeve down and throws the excess plastic in the trash.

You wait for him to turn around before crossing your arms on your chest. “I don’t care. I don’t want no shrink.”

Bruce stares at you for a moment before going out the room. You follow him.

“Why are you avoiding me?” you say when you grab his arm.

Bruce grabs your wrist with his other hand. “It’s not prudent for your healing progress.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“I’m not Hush,” he answers.

“Of course you’re not!” you answer back. He turns to stare at you, looking in your eyes.

“But you still fear me because of what my face reminds you,” he says, and you flinch. He takes your hand off his arm and proceeds to the changing room. You stand there and try to calm your breathing.

 

You start spending more time with Tim in the gym.

“I’m sorry about jumping you when we met,” he apologizes for the tenth time that evening. You’ve been doing stretches to prepare for sparring. Your hands are on Tim’s back, bending him as low as he can go.

“Nah, its fine. I must’ve looked like Night of the Living Dead or something. I woulda jumped me too,” you answer back. You step away when he finishes his count and move closer to the sparring mats.

“If—If you want Robin back, I could—” Tim starts, but you cut in.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him. “You do good work out there.”

The kid looks terribly flustered and pleased, like no one had complimented him before. “Thanks.”

“Good. Now that’s outta the way, let’s go spar. I’ve gone rusty but I bet I can teach you a thing or two,” you tease him as you leap onto the mats. Tim smiles at you, and he enters the padded area with the grace of a panther. You grin at him and lunge.

 

**OCTOBER ‘12**

Dick drops by about a couple of months after you come back. He brings Babs with him.

“It’s good to have you back, little wing.” He rumbles at you. You’re busy not suffocating to death in his bear hug.

“Let go, Dick!” you say, your voice muffled by his clothes. He gives you one last squeeze before setting you free. But not completely—he holds you at arm’s length and looks you over like you’re a marvel of the universe. _A miracle_ , you’ve heard Alfred say too many times.

“Look at you!” Dick exclaims. “You got big! Did you grow a foot taller or something?”

“Yeah,” you answer, “something like that.” You grew a foot and some while you were in the past. You’re shooting up like a plant these days.

“If you grow another foot, you’ll be taller than me,” Dick says. Then he grabs your head and raps his knuckles on the top of your head. “Don’t you dare grow taller than me, little wing.”

You grab his arms and try to pry him off. “Ugh, get off!”

“Let the boy go, Dickie,” Babs says from her perch next to the sofa. She’s in a wheelchair, a development you’ve recently been introduced to. Bruce had to lock you in the containment chamber to keep you from going after the Joker.

“Hey there, beautiful,” you murmur, leaning down to hug her. She smells like flowers and machine grease. “How have you been?”

“Bored. Can’t wait to get my therapy done with,” she answers. She adjusts her glasses when you pull away.

You make a disgusted face. “Ugh. Therapy.”

“Yes. Therapy. It’s been helpful, even when it’s slow,” she explains. You grin at her.

“Whaddya say we ditch Big Bird here—“

“ _Hey!_ ”

“—and paint the town red, like the old days?” you ask. She laughs heartily at you and lays a proprietary hand on Dick’s arm.

“Don’t ever change, Jay,” she says as she pinches your cheeks.

Dick takes you to Blüdhaven a few days after that. The buildings here are new, and the nightlife is teeming with people, potential perps and potential victims. You breathe in the newness of this city, the car exhaust and dust. It doesn’t smell like Gotham, with that bay water stench that clings to your nose.

“Looks great, doesn’t it?” Nightwing says as he stands on the edges of the high rise. He’s looking out at his city, the glittering lights and infrastructure. You look down at the people moving in droves towards the brighter parts of the city and your gaze stays at a few unlit alleys. Everything about this city is _new_.

“Yeah,” you lie, “It’s great.”

 

It takes Bruce half a second staring at you before saying no.

“Why not?!” you complain.

“Nightwing isn’t equipped to handle you,” he reasons.

“You mean he doesn’t have a mansion and ten luxury cars,” you snarl back.

“Dick works for the city night _and_ day, Jay. He doesn’t have the time to take care of you,” he elaborates.

You frown at him. “You sound like a lousy liar. I’m packing my clothes.”

You’re at the door when he goes, “I said no, Jay.”

You turn around and look at him right in the eye. “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

You slam the door in his face and pack your things.

 

You show up at Dick’s apartment with an overnight bag. He looks at you, surprised, and only wearing a towel. There’s a bright blue bra hanging off the back of the couch.

“It’s nothing. I can drop by later,” you say as you turn around.

“Just give me a few, okay?” he says, leaving the door open for you. He’s in a wild hunt looking for a shirt.

“Nah, bro,” you answer, waving your hand in nonchalance. “That’s just sad. I’ll call you later.”

“Jay,” he says miserably, but when you turn away he doesn’t follow.

 

You spend the rest of the afternoon in one of the underground train stations in ‘Haven. People move around you, getting on and off train carts

You hate it when Bruce is right. Dick shouldn’t have to take care of you. When he’s not Nightwing, he’s Officer Grayson, patrolling Blüdhaven in daylight. When he’s neither, he’s with Babs. You sigh, and the sound gets drowned out by the squeal of the train cars.

You’re stranded again. It wasn’t like when you were stuck in the past. You had options then, and you followed your instincts till you can’t anymore. Now, there’s no instinct to guide you. All you have are half-assed choices you don’t want to make.

You don’t want to come back to the manor.

You don’t want to stay at Dickie’s.

You know what’s waiting for you at Dick’s apartment: night patrols and probably school in the mornings. Babs coming over every weekend. Feeling like a side-along every time they get together. Being the constant reminder that Dick got replaced as easily as you did.

There’s also what’s waiting for you at the manor—Bruce’s angry face, saying goodbye to ever getting out of the manor till you’re _thirty_ , watching Robin get into the Batmobile with Batman, and that feeling of being displaced, knowing it should be _you_ out there with him.

You run a hand over your face. You try hard not to get jealous of Tim. He’s not the problem here. He’s not the one who replaced you despite knowing you were still alive. He’s not the one who trained a young kid to punch baddies for a living. You asked Tim once why he’s doing this. He said, “Batman needs a Robin, and Gotham needs Batman.” He’s never been more right.

You can’t patrol Gotham anymore. The perps Batman deals with aren’t the little groupies you were used to before. They’ve got new toys, new affiliations, and new bosses. There are power shifts in Gotham that you don’t understand anymore. There are fewer mobster families, but the influences are still there. Half of them believe in the Bat, and half of them know the Bat can _bleed_. The same pothole is still on the corner in Park Row.

You lean back and rest your head on the back of the stone bench. You’re a mess, a big ball of tangled yarn. You try pulling at one side and you get tangled up more. You’ve opened up your worries with Dinah before. She understands some of your pain. You wonder if she reports your sessions to Bruce.

Bruce… Bruce, Bruce, Bruce…

You cover your face with both your hands. You haven’t mentioned Bruce in your sessions after the first one, when you were debriefed about the circumstance leading to your travel in time. You never mention how you can never catch him alone. Alfred or Tim is always there to provide interference. You don’t talk about how you can’t stand looking at Bruce sometimes, too angry at him for doing nothing, too _scared_ of him because of what Hush did. You hate feeling afraid around Bruce. You hate feeling safer with Batman. You hate feeling this way.

A feeling you can’t explain. Your heart beats fast. Your blood pools in the back of your neck. You want—you hit your face with your hands.

“Jay!” a familiar voice calls out to you. You turn, and Tim comes running to you. He’s gasping and he rests both hands on his knees. Sweat is dripping from his hair.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, standing up and ready to asses potential assailants.

“You—you vanished,” Tim pants. He grabs on to your arm. “B’s turning Gotham all over. Let’s go home.”

“Did you skip class to find me?” you ask.

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t run away. Why’d you do it?” he asks, tugging you over to the train going to Gotham.

“I can quit if that’s why B’s not letting you out,” Tim says when the doors close, and he’s got you bundled in the seat next to the window. The train enters the tunnel.

You shake your head. “Don’t quit. You do good work out there.”

“It’s okay. The, uh, _title_ was yours in the first place,” he insists.

“It was Big Bird’s _first_. He trained you, right?” you ask.

“Yes, but—”

“Then you’re it, chum. Quit making me give you something I don’t have anymore,” you explain and you turn to look at the boarding passengers.

Tim isn’t letting you off the hook and he asks, “But… why did you go?”

“I needed fresh air,” you lie.

“In a train station in ‘Haven?” Tim snorts at you.

“Ok, yah got me,” you snap at him. “I wanted to go as far away from Gotham as I can. Yah happy now?”

Tim is silent for a moment, and you think he’s done with you.

Then he pipes up with, “Why? If I can help—”

“If you can, we wouldn’t be here. Sorry, kid. It’s not something you can fix,” you tell him. You lean toward the window and close your eyes.

The manor is eerily quiet when you arrive. Alfred is at the door and treats both of you to an afternoon snack. Bruce shows up once to fetch Tim for patrol. He spares you a glance before he goes away. Alfred is the one who gives you the cold shoulder, short of slamming your food on the table. He probably thinks that’s beneath him.

You go to your room.

You never sleep here anymore. You relocate to the one next to Alfred’s. You come here now even if you don’t exactly know why. The rugs had been replaced. The wallpaper too, you think, except there’s no way of knowing by looking, and you refuse to use ultraviolet light.

Everything looks the same—as if an asshole with Bruce’s face hadn’t beaten you within an inch of your life. As if the injury that made your left eye blurry and twitchy didn’t happen. As if the surgical scars on your torso and right leg didn’t happen.

It’s making you sick, staying in this room.

“Jay, come,” someone says. You follow the tugging hand around your elbow and the door closes in front of you. You come out of your trance to Bruce’s blank face. Your lips twist in a scowl.

You wish you can tell him you’re alright. You wish you can tell him you can still follow the mission. You wish you can tell him—

“You can’t go in that room. _Ever_. Do you understand, Jason?” Bruce commands in a low voice, his hands on your arms and he’s stooped to keep eye level with you.

“As clear as fucking day,” you say. Bruce gives a small huff and he lets you go. He doesn’t even reprimand you about cussing. It feels wrong. Everything is wrong.

 

Bruce summons you to his study the next morning. He’s still in his dressing gown. You know he hasn’t slept yet, so when he tells you to pack your bags, you don’t believe him.

“You want me to _what_?”

“Live fulltime at the Titans’ Tower. Since Dick moved out, they’ve been short a strategist. They’ve requested Tim plenty of times but he’s already with Young Justice,” he explains.

“You’re throwing me out,” you deadpan. Bruce doesn’t even bat an eye.

“You’ll be there to monitor their missions for me. It’s only temporary,” he elaborates, and he offers you a _fucking, honest-to-god mission packet_. You take it blindly. When you process what he said, you let it fall to the desk.

“You’re throwing me out,” you repeat. You breathe a shy croaky sort of laugh that betrays what you feel.

“I’m not throwing you out, Jason,” Bruce denies, but you don’t listen. You crumple into the seat, your face in your hands.

_He’s throwing you out like he did with Dick. You’re useless. You’re not part of the mission anymore. He’s throwing you out. Dick had friends. Dick had the Titans. He’s throwing you out. The Titans wouldn’t like you. They need Dick; you learned that the hard way. He’s throwing you…_

“Jason!”

You blink. Bruce is kneeling in front of you, cradling your face with his hands. His blue eyes the closest that they’d been the whole time you were back.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“No,” you answer and tears are spilling down your cheeks. You kick at him and beat at his shoulders with your fists.

“No, I’m not. You asshole!” you hiss against the tight feeling in your throat. Bruce grabs your fists, and you lean into him. It’s pathetic. _Everything is so wrong._ Bruce makes soothing noises at you, and it makes you cry harder.

“You’ll be alright. It’s only for a short while,” Bruce rumbles at you. The front of his gown is wet with your tears.

 

Tim’s there the day you leave. Alfred had packed your bags for you, and you plan on ditching them somewhere on the freeway. You don’t need that many clothes where you’re going.

“Donna will meet you in New York,” Bruce says.

“We’ll be fine, Bruce. Quit worrying,” Dick says. He’s driving you upstate. You feel sorry for what you’re going to do.

You let Dick march you to the passenger seat of his beat-up car. It’s nice, has a soft interior, and doesn’t smell like beer or sex. That’s always a plus in your experience. Your luggage goes to the trunk and your backpack in the backseat. Alfred leans to the window, and you roll it down.

“I have it on good opinion this shan’t take long, Jason,” he says. You gave him a hug already before going out the door, so you settle for grinning at him.

“Yah won’t grow too old without me now, are yah?” you tease him.

“Hmp. Perhaps you ought to stay there longer,” he says before passing you a food basket. Tim leans on your door when you get the basket settled.

“We’ll see each other soon. Young Justice will be honored to help the Titans whenever. Don’t hesitate to call,” he says. It sounds like he practiced that. You lift your right fist to give him a fist bump.

Bruce is the last to speak to you. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer. He hums.

“I need you to report in, at least once every 24 hour period. Barbara is connected with the tower servers and she can get you up to date with their tech after you’ve settled in,” he says. You roll your eyes at him.

“B, I know. It’ll be fine. Trust me,” you lie as you smile at him. Bruce gives you one of his secret smiles where just the sides of his mouth quirks up. It’s the one he uses when he thinks he shouldn’t find you amusing. He leans back to talk to Dick. He misses you scowl at your shoes.

“No detours, Dick. No side trips,” Bruce orders him.

“Aw, Bruce, but that’s the fun of going cross-country,” Dick whines.

“Unless it’s for rest stops, I don’t want you stopping anywhere.”

“What if we get hungry? Or we get caught out in the night?”

“It’s a two hour drive on I-95. I’m warning you, Dick. No adventures.”

“Fine, fine,” Dick says as he starts up the car. He turns to you. “Sorry, little wing. I tried.”

The manor is becoming small behind you. You exit the gates and even that disappears between the trees in a matter of minutes.

“It’ll just be for a bit. I’m sorry about this, Jay,” Dick says. You turn to look at him and shrug.

“It’s no big. ‘Sides, it’s time for me to try flying on my own, right?” you ask. Dick smiles at you and he resumes driving.

“You’re helping me out. Thanks a lot, Jay,” he says.

You lean back in the seat. “So, uh, where’s the first rest stop?”

**END of Side A**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoohoo! I did it! I posted a BruJay fic! I thought I wouldn't ever but here we are!
> 
> This is my contest entry to win a bunch of Hetalia Merch. Can you believe I wrote the drafts for this in more or less a month? And, I managed to make it 30+K words long! This is a first for me. Its amazing what motivation can do to you. *v* 
> 
> The prompts for this fic came from two sources, stated at the top notes. I know I didn't tag most of the characters that showed up here. I did that because those characters were side characters at best and cameo characters at worst. Hopefully we'll see more of the batclan in the second and last installment. 
> 
> I know I didn't completely follow the contest prompt, but please let me have a chance! (TvT) I promise you they will end up together in the end. It's just that the end looks to be 20K words as well and I couldn't finish it before the deadline. OTL I would die (from over work. I swear I spent like a week wondering if I can use this for Pendulum before deciding not to.) 
> 
> THIS JUST IN: I won the contest! Woohoo!!!
> 
> Thank you, itryit, for the amazing opportunity to finally write something for this pairing. Thank you, neioo, for looking into this humongous fic and providing awesome comments and proofreading the lot. Lastly, thank _you_ for reading. Please tell me what you think about this fic and leave some kudos. Ciao~!

**Author's Note:**

> Whoohoo! I did it! I posted a BruJay fic! I thought I wouldn't ever but here we are!
> 
> This is my contest entry to win a bunch of Hetalia Merch. Can you believe I wrote the drafts for this in more or less a month? And, I managed to make it 30+K words long! This is a first for me. Its amazing what motivation can do to you. *v*
> 
> The prompts for this fic came from two sources, stated at the top notes. I know I didn't tag most of the characters that showed up here. I did that because those characters were side characters at best and cameo characters at worst. Hopefully we'll see more of the batclan in the second and last installment.
> 
> I know I didn't completely follow the contest prompt, but please let me have a chance! (TvT) I promise you they will end up together in the end. It's just that the end looks to be 20K words as well and I couldn't finish it before the deadline. OTL I would die (from over work. I swear I spent like a week wondering if I can use this for Pendulum before deciding not to.)
> 
> THIS JUST IN: I won the contest! Woohoo!!!
> 
> Thank you, itryit, for the amazing opportunity to finally write something for this pairing. Thank you, neioo, for looking into this humongous fic and providing awesome comments and proofreading the lot. Lastly, thank you for reading. Please tell me what you think about this fic and leave some kudos. Ciao~!
> 
> EDIT: Because the word count fluctuates so much, I just want to say 34,866 in October 1, 2016.


End file.
